Magic, as opposed to Magic
by The Rev. Cardboard Box
Summary: Crossover with Oblivion. Harry Potter was lost, but now is found. The Arch-Mage isn't happy. Harry isn't happy. And they're just the first two people who are going to find The Boy Who Lived's destiny one immense headache...
1. Chapter 1

**Preface**

I think we all know by now who owns which IP, so yawn zzz.

This crossover began as a writer's unblock exercise, but I can see all sorts of possibilities for heads to bang together.

**Meanwhile, in Minerva McGonnagal's office:**

_Harry Potter, Care of Trooper J'Dargo, County Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil._

"But where on earth _is_ Cyrodiil?" McGonnagal asked in confusion.

For the past eleven years Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had been missing. Investigating his only living relatives, the Dursleys, had only proven that 1) Harry had never been taken in there, and 2) that McGonnagal's reservations about them were well-founded. Someone had (mercifully, in her eyes) scooped up the baby before anyone inside had answered the door – and that meant magic.

And apparently magic that was powerful enough to conceal Harry from any and all seekers.

She frowned at the envelope. The Hogwarts acceptance letter looked normal enough, except for the impossible address. And the only reason that she had noticed was that she had been checking the list of letters received and seen, over and over again:

_Harry Potter, care of Arch-Mage Ra'jirra and S'jirra, Faregyl Inn, Green Road, Cyrodiil. _Four unopened. Two opened, neither read by Harry. All subjected to magics unknown.

Now Harry was on the move. Normally she would simply let the letter go, but _where _Cyrodiil _was _was a mystery. Maybe Dumbledore knew, but he was occupied with locating a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Otherwise, if it came to that, and they couldn't track him down...

She put it aside and retired for the night, resolving to speak with Albus about it in the morning.

**The next day, in McGonnagal's office:**

_Harry Potter, Care of Arch-Mage Ra'jirra & Trooper J'Dargo, Lab Seven, Black Plateau Magickal Research Institute, Cyrodiil._

A knock at her office door heralded the arrival of Dumbledore's hat, then his head, followed by the rest of him. "Problem, Minerva?"

"It's this letter," she said handing it to him, "Look who it's for!"

The old wizard's eyebrows shot up but that was all. "How bizarre. He's in a game?"

"Game?" McGonagall asked in confusion, "Oh, that blasted essay of yours. This is important, Albus! Harry Potter is _alive and we have to find him!_"

The two looked at each other, then looked around as something made the air jump in surprise around them. The letter in Dumbledore's hand also jumped as the address changed.

_Harry Potter, Care of Trooper J'dargo, Corridor outside Hufflepuff Dormitories, Hogwarts._

**Meanwhile, outside the Hufflepuff dormitories:**

J'dargo looked around. The hallway was adorned with tapestries, paintings, and suits of armour; if it wasn't for the clearly startled looks the portraits were giving him, he would have thought himself in Castle Chorrol somewhere.

He had to admit that he did cut a figure worth looking at. The kit had grown into a stocky block of warrior Khajiit, a Trooper of the Imperial Legion, and nominally assigned to guard duties at Chorrol. Until now.

He remembered those awful days when Dad had been lost on the other side of a portal like this one, trapped somewhere called the Capital Wasteland. It wasn't going to happen to him though. Hopefully.

Apart from the portraits gaping at him – one picture had at least three extra figures now, all pointing and goggling – the area seemed safe. He sheathed his sword and called through the fresh spacetime anomaly set in the wall. "All clear."

The boy joined him. Black hair was drawn back into a serviceable ponytail; a silver dagger at his belt; almost hidden behind the White Fang goblin shield he bore with unsurprising competence. The rest of him was bedecked in tan and brown linen, showing signs of wear. The Faregyl children, as anywhere, tended to play hard.

"So where are we?" he asked. Green eyes looked around keenly as he absently scratched at a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

"Apparently this place is supposed to be like the Arcane University," J'dargo replied, "and maybe they can explain a thing or two about that letter."

**Meanwhile, in the caretaker's office:**

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," Dumbledore intoned, tapping his slightly shaking wand against the Marauders' Map.

Only a few marks appeared on the parchment. His, McGonagall's, and Filch's were all in the caretaker's office. Madame Pomfrey's was in the Hospital Wing, Snape's was in his dungeon, and there were two outside Hufflepuff's common room.

One was labelled 'J'dargo'. The other had the professors bolting out the door.

_Harry Potter, Corridor outside Hufflepuff Dormitories, Hogwarts, _the envelope said.

**Meanwhile, outside the Hufflepuff Dorms:**

"So which way do we go?" Harry looked longingly back at the portal. Black Plateau wasn't a welcoming place, but it was Cyrodiil, not like whatever _here _was. Plane of Oblivion most likely.

"Let's go to the open end of this corridor," J'dargo put action to words and Harry followed, absently fiddling with his dagger.

"Why there?" Harry asked.

"Because we want to be found," his foster brother replied, "but if there is reason to flee, we have the room to flee."

The corridor opened onto an immense chamber surrounded by balconies, connected by stairways that every so often moved by themselves, turning the place into a constantly changing maze. The only other figures they could see stopped two floors down, one pointing at them, the other at themselves.

"Can they see us?" Harry asked.

J'dargo invoked Starlight. "Yup."

"Lbh gurer!" The woman's voice was unusually loud and brooked no denial. "Fgnl jurer lbh ner!"

"I'm not getting on those stairs," Harry said, and J'dargo nodded.

The two figures closed in on them. The woman was wearing an unflattering hat and an oddly old-fashioned black dress. The man – Harry shuddered. Those star-splattered robes and that pointed hat were ridiculous enough without the long beard. If he had to dress like _that_ –

The professors stepped off the obliging staircase and looked at them: An armoured feline of some kind, wearing armour and a surcoat bearing a white tree on a blue background; and a boy who, despite the wary expression, the peasant clothing and the shield, was unmistakable.

"Harry Potter?" Dumbledore stepped forward and halted when Harry drew his dagger. "There's no need for that. I'm Professor Dumbledore." He fished something out of a small bag he was carrying and popped it in his mouth. "Lemon drop?"

"Furngur, oebgure," the manlike cat said to Harry, his accent rolling his r's noticeably, then turned to Dumbledore. "Zl ncbybtvrf, fve, ohg jr pnaabg haqrefgnaq lbh."

The two looked at each other. "This won't hurt a bit," Dumbledore explained, then tapped J'dargo on the gorget. "_Omni Lingua._"

"Jung ner lbh qbing to my brother?" Harry cried, advancing on him. Dumbledore was startled at how competently he wielded his weapon.

"Peace, little brother!" J'dargo placed a hand on his shoulder. "He hasn't harmed me at all."

"So there won't be any need for violence, Master Potter," McGonagall added, looking hard at the boy. Both he and his guardian jumped slightly.

"A spell to translate tongues," Dumbledore explained, "I can also make a ring or amulet to ensure it lasts for the duration of your lessons."

"What do you mean, lessons?" Harry was obviously scared. "Why do you call me Potter? Where are we? Who are you?"

"I am Professor Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry," and his hand took in the walls around them. "This is Professor McGonagall," he gestured to the woman, then presented the little bag he was holding. "Lemon drop?"

J'dargo took one, raised his eyebrows at the taste, then nodded vigorously to Harry, who hesitated before sheathing his dagger, plucked a drop as though expecting it to bite him, and put it in his mouth doubtfully.

"I am J'dargo, of the Imperial Legion," J'dargo introduced himself around the sweetmeat, "and this is Harry."

"We've been trying to find you," McGonagall explained, extending the letter to Harry, "about your enrolment here –"

"Enrolment?" J'dargo frowned beneath his helm. "We don't know anything about that. All we know is there's been... hang on, I have Dad's notes here." He pulled up a purse and started to rummage inside.

"Perhaps we should discuss this in my office," Dumbledore said carefully.

J'dargo paused, looking at his foster-brother's frightened face. "I have a better idea," he said, "Father is through there – you can explain it to him in person."

**Lab Seven, Black Plateau Magickal Research Institute, one minute later:**

The professors looked around with interest at the frankly ugly chamber in which they arrived – and with some trepidation at the heavily armed and armoured guards watching them. While most appeared to be human, one was green with huge tusks, and another had the face of a not very impressed lizard.

"We're back," J'dargo said to one, "Where's Da– the Arch-Mage?"

"Next door. Lab Six."

"Right then," J'dargo addressed them, "follow me."

The room opened onto a hallway cluttered with crates, barrels, tables and other paraphernalia. More of the armoured people stood at doorways and others in bluish robes roamed about, stopping to stare at them. J'dargo ignored everyone and entered another room in which another cat-man, this one's fur greying with age, stood up from a cluttered table.

"Sons," he said, "Who're these fashion victims?"

"Professors Dumbledore, and McGonagall," J'dargo said formally, "my father, Arch-Mage Ra'jirra of the Imperial Mage's Guild."

"An honour," Ra'jirra grunted, "now pull up a pew. J'dargo, go find Henantier will you?"

"Aye," and the younger left. Dumbledore noticed that Harry immediately went to sit close to the old cat's right side. Keeping his dagger hand free.

"Mister... Arch-Mage," McGonagall began, "where exactly are we?"

"Black Plateau Magical Research Facility, County Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil," Ra'jirra replied, "pushed it through after I became Arch-Mage. Something to do with assorted silly buggers setting up shop in old ruins and making the neighbours' lives a misery. So I thought, why not get them all in one place where they can blow themselves up without hurting anyone?"

"All very well, but I've never heard of Cyrodiil." She extended the letter. "For some time, this letter has been addressed to Harry via Faregyl Inn in, ah, Cyrodiil. Which apparently only existed in a, ah, rolling game."

"Role-playing game," Dumbledore corrected.

"Game?" The old cat looked stunned. "What year is it where you came from?"

"Nineteen ninety, why?"

"Ever hear of a place called Washington?"

"Yes, it's in America, I believe. In fact, I think it's the capital city."

Ra'jirra frowned. "Ever own a Mister Handy?"

"What's that?"

"Must be a different Earth," he muttered to himself. "Right then, my son here's scared out of his wits, thanks to your letters." He moved several stacks of parchment, revealing a number of Hogwarts envelopes, two opened. "Now, what the hells is a Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry when it's at home, and why should Harry go there?"

"Because his parents wanted him to," Dumbledore explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "indeed, they put his name down when he was born."

"Ah, you mean his birth parents."

"Exactly." The old professor looked pleased at the apparent understanding.

"What's wrong with the Arcane University?"


	2. Chapter 2

**For those who came in late:**

The Boy Who Lived... well, he's alive. McGonnagal has another letter for him, but the address is impossible. Well, actually it isn't thanks to the power of demented fanfictions.

What spells will Harry know by the time he heads off on his great adventure? Lemme work on that.

So McGonnagal and Dumbledore are now in Cyrodiil, trying to explain to a sceptical Khajiit Arch-Mage why Harry should be enrolling at Hogwarts instead of apprenticing to the Mage's Guild...

**Meanwhile, in Black Plateau:**

Both Dumbledore and McGonagall blinked.

"Harry's a born magus," Ra'jirra went on, "and as long as he sticks to his lessons and doesn't kill himself, he'll probably become Arch-Mage after me. He can summon powerful daedra – _when _he applies himself –"

Harry flushed.

"His grasp of Alchemy's at journeyman levels already, and with some work he should make either a damn good healer or a corker battlemage in the Empire's service. His Mysticism needs work though," and he frowned at Harry, who turned even redder.

"And how is he with Charms and Transfiguration?" McGonagall asked. 'Alchemy' was probably the local term for Potions, but the other terms eluded her.

"Whaddya mean, charms? If you're talking about Illusion magics..." the old Khajiit trailed off meaningfully, raising an eyebrow. The incomprehension appeared to be mutual.

"I..." McGonagall frowned. "Charms covers a wide range of effects. There is the Cheering Charm, for instance, and there are also charms for making objects lighter, larger or smaller, indeed –"

"So this 'charms' of yours is a mix of the Illusion and Alteration schools then?"

McGonagall traded looks with Dumbledore. They had expected a wizarding family, or maybe a well-intentioned muggle one, but not a nonhuman of rank proficient in magic of a different kind.

"Anyway, what about this 'transfiguring' of yours?"

"Well now," McGonagall stood and drew her wand, "may I provide a demonstration? I'll need some pins."

Ra'jirra looked at her and dug in his pocket, then dropped some old nails on the table. "How's those?"

McGonagall pursed her lips as she regarded them, then tapped one with her wand while uttering two peculiar words. The nail transformed into a rat, which looked around for a moment before scampering for the table's edge.

Ra'jirra had stiffened when the transfiguring had occurred, but he didn't look impressed. "Nice illusion."

McGonagall didn't answer, but instead fished out a rat treat and lured the ex-nail to her. The rat cheerfully climbed onto her hand and started nibbling as she straightened and looked hard at the Arch-Mage.

"This is no _illusion. _Right now I think you'll find this is a very real rat."

Now the cat-man raised an eyebrow, then his right hand skywards, releasing a purplish cloud that wrapped around him and sank into his eyes. He rose stiffly and walked around McGonagall, eyes going wide with astonishment as he stared at the rat.

"Ahnissi's tits," he choked, "I can see life sign!"

He then squatted, leaned over, and inspected the rat from all angles – _he's trying to ensure it's not just me,_ McGonagall realised. He gently lifted the rat from her hand, looked at it in his own, then drew another purple cloud about the animal before depositing it on the table, where it looked about curiously before grooming itself.

"Harry," he murmured, and the boy handed him his dagger as the old Khajiit fished out a peculiarly striated bluish gem.

Both professors jumped when Ra'jirra cleft the rat's head from its body, sending a small fountain of gore across the face of a Hogwarts envelope. The jewel in his other hand began to glow, a small intense spark in its depths.

"What are you _doing?_" McGonnagal yelped.

"Testing, of course!" Ra'jirra replied sharply, peering at the gem. "Seems it was a real rat after all – soul trap worked."

Harry stretched out his hand, and his father blinked and handed him back the dagger. Harry fished a piece of scrap paper off the table and wiped the blade before sheathing it.

"This is incredible," Ra'jirra said, then straightened and looked at Dumbledore. "What about fighting? Destruction and Restoration magic?"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts," Dumbledore replied with a twinkle returning to his eyes, "he'll be taught the basics of such magic in his first year."

"All right, now I understand," the oldster grunted. "We organise magic by _effect._ You lot organise it by _application._"

"What's that mean Dad?" Harry piped up, not taking his eyes from the rat in McGonnagall's hand.

"It means that every class will teach you a mixture of schools. Like Defence classes will probably, if I'm not mistaken, teach Destruction, Restoration and Alteration magics – basically everything you need to know about staying alive while offing the other bastard. Charms will teach Alteration and Illusion, among other things. Like that."

"Sounds dumb," Harry shrugged.

"Anyway," Ra'jirra turned back to the wizards, "spells are all well and good until your magicka is depleted," the old cat's capacity for scepticism seemed unbounded! "What about regular combat? Using blades, bows, axes and such?"

McGonnagal's eyebrows nearly bounced off the ceiling.

"What..." she stuttered, and hated herself for it. "Why would you need to teach that? In any case, our society doesn't need such lessons."

"Balls." Ra'jirra glared at her. "So you're telling me that my son here only gets taught magical combat. Which to me means that once his magicka's run out, he may as well just fall down and bleed to death!"

"_Mister–_" McGonnagal reined herself in with an immense effort. "Arch-Mage. I... I hardly think a sword and shield are..."

The rat's transfiguration ended just then, and McGonnagal stared at the severed nail and scattered rat treat crumbs as she tried to organise her thoughts. Ra'jirra also stared, then pulled out the gem. It was still aglow.

"Dad," Harry piped up, "you said armour wasn't helpful against guns, didn't you? In the Capital Wasteland?" _The what?_

He turned to McGonnagal. "You have guns?"

"No, but Muggles do," she responded absently.

"What's a Muggle when it's at home?" Ra'jirra asked irritably.

"Muggles are non-magical people. Wizards don't have much to do with them, of course, due to the Statute of Secrecy."

"Nine pre_serve_ us... where'd you get that word from, Sheogorath?" Ra'jirra's scornful expression said far more. Mostly profane.

"I assure you it's a–"

"Or maybe some idiot let his _baby_ come up with it?"

Harry snickered at that.

"Ra'jirra," Dumbledore said quietly, "it is Harry's birthright."

"Why?" It occurred to the old wizard that Ra'jirra had taken an instant dislike to him and was being as obstinate as possible. "In case you hadn't heard, his birth parents are dead. And he's happy here. So why should I watch him vanish through that portal next door into an alien world he knows nothing about?"

Dumbledore watched Ra'jirra's face, keeping his breathing slow and steady. He didn't want to tell him, but a little voice was nagging in the back of his head _tell them the prophecy let them know what's at stake._ He mustered his Legillimency and reached out.

_Bloody Earthmen they're all mad there all mad blew up their fucking world I'm not sending Harry over there how the fuck did they send those fucking letters same way that Harry popped up on our doorstep I guess no scratch that letters didn't come with footsteps bloody gods what the fuck are you doing in my head old man?_

Dumbledore managed to just blink.

_Telepath eh figures hang on what's this Voldemort eh well that's different gotcha there I see he's a champion or will be_

"Harry," Ra'jirra said, breaking eye contact and looking at his adopted son, "See where J'dargo and Henantier have got to, will you?"

"Yes Dad," and Harry's backside couldn't be seen for dust.

"That got rid of him," the Khajiit observed, then looked at Dumbledore again. "Keep your telepathy to yourself next time. And what's this about Voldemort?"

"Voldemort killed his parents," Dumbledore explained, "his mother died trying to protect him."

"He's a Champion then," and the professors could hear the capital letter. "Been there, done that. Well – I'm not dumb enough to stand against the gods. He'll go to Hogwarts. Just one thing though..."

"Yes?" Dumbledore understood the tone, the tone of a father who truly cared, of a capital-C Champion who knew what awaited his son.

"When school's out, I want him shacked up with a Mug– _Mundane_ family. Don't look surprised, _Albus,_ you let a bit more slip when I spotted you! He's half-breed and ought to know how the other half live. Oh – and we'll need to arrange transport back here – no, I'll set up a receiving area in the Council chambers at the Arcane Uni – talk to Polus and Vito about it. Give him some time with his rellies and friends eh?"

The old cat smiled now, but it was a hard, bargaining smile.

"Me, I've got some hard yakker to do, so you can go home and I'll take Harry back." He grimaced. "I've got a whole week on the road to discuss his mission with him. With any luck there'll be a vermin attack along the way so he can get it out of his system."


	3. Chapter 3

**For those who came in late:**

McGonnagal and Dumbledore have met the Boy Who Lived, fortunately without injury to themselves. Then they met his father: Ra'jirra, Arch-Mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild. This was quite a shock to them.

After an ill-fated Legillimency attempt by Dumbledore, Ra'jirra agreed to have Harry attend, but on certain conditions. One of those conditions is getting Harry to submit...

**Dumbledore's office, four hours later**

The other professors had finally left, after both McGonnagal and himself had explained what had happened. No doubt _someone_ would tell the Daily damnable Prophet, which meant no doubt that Lucius and his Little Lord Malfoy would start getting on his tits, no doubt insisting that _they_ should take care of poor Harry.

Dumbledore shook his head and tugged open a drawer, then another drawer inside that, and extracted the magazine inside. _Maybe it's time to toddle off to the King's Head again – where the talk's about weather and the big baddie's playing for the other team, and I'm just that dear old duffer who comes in with his brain at half-mast._

_Dragon,_ the magazine was called. It was a source of fascination to Dumbledore, how Muggles thought magic was; so he picked up fantasy novels and magazines like this from time to time.

_Elder Scrolls Coming, _the article cried, and declared this would be a wonderful thing for the owners of certain game systems (GURPS always made him want to giggle like a firstie), complete with conceptual art. Words popped out at him. _Beastfolk. Cyrodiil, Hammerfell. Daggerfall._

Back then they'd been so many words, in just another impulse purchase; source material for an essay he never got around to writing. There was Geoffrey Beaumont-Smythe; he had written an essay once – _The Statute of Secrecy: A Contemporary Evaluation._ It earned him a wand-snapping, Obliviation, and exile into the muggle world. Some had demanded he be sent to Azkaban.

Not that he thought the same would happen to him, but the vultures were already circling...

_I'm not dumb enough to stand against the gods,_ Ra'jirra had said.

Dumbledore closed the magazine with a shivering hand and returned it to the drawer within a drawer, before opening another one, this bearing different clothing.

Ten minutes later Dumbledore was folded and packed away and Albie apparated to an alleyway two doors down from the King's Head, where games were mostly there to be complained about, keeping the kids sitting on their arses and filling their heads with filth and all.

**Red Ring Road, near east end of Imperial Bridge, four days later**

Ra'jirra sat his horse, held the reins of Harry's, and silently watched the boy hack furiously at the already dead rat.

The old Khajiit wasn't one to mess around. Once the two wierdies had been bundled back where they came from, he, J'dargo and Harry had spent the night at Black Plateau before setting off the next morning.

As he'd feared, Harry wasn't happy to hear he'd be going. _That's what I get for filling the boy's head with tales about the horrors of the Capital Wasteland._ At least part of his tirade was something to do with Dumbledore's robes, and besides his real family was here, and several more incoherent points.

The following two days had passed in tense silence.

The third day, Ra'jirra had pointed out that Transfiguration alone would be something nobody else could do, but Harry wasn't sold.

_Well, if he's going to be mad, he's going to be mad. Tough._

"Harry," Ra'jirra said quietly.

Harry ignored him.

"Associate."

The dagger paused in its movement.

"Look at me, Associate."

Harry turned, as if in a dream, still holding the gore-sheathed dagger.

"Father?"

"That's _Arch-Mage, _Associate."

J'dargo gave his father a startled look, but knew enough to keep out of this.

"Associate," Ra'jirra said, "You are to consider yourself on a mission for the Empire."

"The Empire?" The words were having a terrible time worming their way through Harry's anger to his brain. "You mean like the Blades?"

_Always the Blades, _everybody_ wants to be a bloody Blade like Lord Zul gro-Rumbleguts. _"If you want, yes. Your mission has several objectives."

"I have to go to that place don't I?"

"Yes. Harry, I want you to learn all you can about these wizards, what they're like, how they live, what they can do, and most importantly what they teach their children."

"All right." Harry still looked sulky.

"We'll come and collect you every year once the term's over." _Oh good, that's cheered him up. _"So make sure to learn something to impress your mates!"

Harry's eyes widened, then a grin began to appear.

"Secondly," and Ra'jirra looked at Harry sternly, "I've arranged for you to stay with a Mug– ah, _mundane_ family for a few weeks before term, so you can learn all you can about how _they_ live. After all, apparently your birth mother wasn't a magical sort, so it's sensible to learn all you can, eh?"

The old Khajiit winked at Harry. The boy's grin became a little sickly, then regrouped as he understood. "Of course, Arch-Mage," he said, looking comical as he adopted what was supposed to be a noble pose.

"Thirdly, I want you to show these people what makes the Empire great. After all, you're Harry Potter," and Ra'jirra adopted a bardy tone, "Loyal Citizen of Cyrodiil! Ambassador of the Empire! Associate of the Mage's Guild! And you will show them," and Ra'jirra gave a mock-stern look to the now giggling lad, "what an Associate of the Guild can do!"

"Yeah!" Harry cried, raising his dagger aloft. The clotting blood dribbling off it spoiled the effect though.

"Nine save us, brother, clean your blade!" J'dargo broke his silence, "we can't have you fronting up to this mob with dirty equipment!"

"Sorry," and Harry knelt and plunged his dagger into the earth several times to clean it.

"Last thing, and this is important, so listen," Ra'jirra said, and this time the stern look was genuine. Harry froze as he locked gazes with his father.

"Harry... you mother died to protect you. From a man these people are too afraid to name, a man called Voldemort. He killed your parents, and I believe it is your destiny to take revenge."

Harry stood unsteadily as he took this in.

"So, your mission will last at least seven years. You will go to Hogwarts and learn their lore, their powers, their weaknesses, because sure as anything this Voldemort swine will share them. And once you get your hands on him, he's as good as dead. Got it?"

Harry's grin became a little forced.

"Dad... so I go learn about these wizards, and I learn about the mundane people... and then I find and kill this Vo– uh, Vomit–"

"Voldemort."

"And then I come home?"

"Better, son. You come home and we make you an Apprentice. And after that," and Ra'jirra grinned at him, "you knock everyone's stockings off and become Arch-Mage!"

Harry's head swirled with fanciful images as he, his father, and his brother rode across the immense bridge and homeward bound, leaving the rat-shaped mess behind.


	4. Chapter 4

**For those who came in late:**

After McGonnagal and Dumbledore left Black Plateau, Dumbledore left for the pub, while Ra'jirra and Harry left for home. Four days later, Ra'jirra managed to get Harry onside by casting the situation as a mission – which it pretty much is.

**Hogwarts staff meeting, four days later:**

_Headmaster Dumbledore,_

_Hogwarts Academy_

_Hail,_

_I spoke with Harry. He's coming after all. He'll be taking notes and reporting back to me. Get over it._

_Have you worked out which MUNDANE family he'll be shacked up with? Remember if you welch on this, the deal's off._

_I've told Harry to be on his best behaviour as an ambassador of the Empire, so I expect the same._

_Write me care of the Arcane University._

_Ra'jirra, Arch-Mage_

Dumbledore lowered the paper and looked around at his fellow professors. Snape was looking, as usual, like he'd stepped in crupshit. McGonnagall was looking as neutral as possible, while the others wore expressions of surprise and worry.

"Am I to understand," it was Vector who spoke first, "that this 'Arch-Mage' is going to be _spying_ on us?"

"Spies don't usually tell you they're spying, you know," Flitwick responded from somewhere in his chair.

"He doesn't trust us," Dumbledore said seriously, "And let's be honest. Harry's leaving the only world he's ever known, for this one. It's only natural a father would be concerned for his child."

_Worse still, the boy won't be as easily moulded into what we need. Those bastard Dursleys would have been perfect, made him trust me on sight. How the _hell _did he know what I was doing?_

"Is there any reason _why,_" Snape asked scornfully, "this man insists on Harry living with Muggles?" He just simmered in his seat. "I would think a suitable _wizarding_ family would be more appropriate."

_Such as the Malfoys?_

"Such as the Weasleys?" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at Snape's quickly repressed anger, then he put on a solemn mien. "No, Arch-Mage Ra'jirra was quite insistent. You see, he..."

_How am I going to explain this?_

"...He is very smart. When I explained how Lily –" out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape stiffen. "– tried to protect him, Ra'jirra immediately made the connection. 'I'm not dumb enough to stand against the gods', were his exact words."

A voice piped up from the back. "You don't think You-Know-Who is going to return, do you?"

The question floated in the air like a miasma of doom.

_Everything's going wrong. If I tell them, it could mean my suspension for spreading fear. Nobody's going to want to know _he_ could be back, especially not Good King Malfoy. On the other hand – wait! I know..._

"Officially, no," he said firmly.

The miasma of doom was replaced by a miasma of confusion.

"Nobody's certain what happened to the bastard. So, I'm keeping an open mind on that. More importantly, I wouldn't be in the least surprised if one of his followers decided _he_ was the Dark Lord reborn."

The ensuing pause was filled with a buzz of agreement. "He's right you know," Flitwick piped up, "some fool could Transfigure himself and claim to... you know."

"Look-alike or no look-alike," Dumbledore took command again, "I'd rather prepare for the worst. He was a madman and a hypocrite, and I'd rather not see muggleborns under threat of Him or his Death Eaters, thank you very much."

"So we should assume the worst?"

"Yes. We should assume someone will appear claiming to be Voldemort reborn, and ensure our pupils' safety in that event. I'm sure we can stand up to fake Dark Lords, can't we?"

That broke the tension.

_Yet nobody asks what I meant, do they, Tom my boy? We're not taking you seriously. And Harry's coming back, with his own magics, and as God is my witness, I'll ensure he's trained and ready to send your arse back to Hell as soon as you return._

The rest of the meeting was relatively relaxed as management issues were discussed, with the exception of Quirrell's assignment as Defence Against the Dark Arts master. Snape stormed out, seething, after making his usual remarks and demands. It was almost a ritual now and everyone knew it.

As the professors filed out, McGonnagall hung back, then turned to Dumbledore with a flinty look.

"You're not thinking of the Dursleys, are you?" she asked in an equally flinty tone.

_Good God help me, I bloody was too. _The image of an intransigent Harry, convinced that wizards were fools and muggles were bigots, actually frightened Dumbledore more than the idea of an angry Ra'jirra. _Whatever magics he has, we might need them, damnitall._

"No, Minerva," he finally said reassuringly, "I know exactly where to billet him."

**Mage's Council Chamber, Arcane University, the following day**

Ra'jirra frowned at the parchment. Dumbledore's decision actually made sense – Harry would be hosted by a muggle – _mundane, damn it!_ – family whose child had turned out to be magical. Which meant that Harry would not only experience mundane life, but also be able to discuss what would be taught at Hogwarts with a fellow pupil.

With a sigh, he pulled the return envelope towards him, along with paper, inkwell and quill, and wrote his response.


	5. Chapter 5

**For those who came in late:**

Harry's been in Cyrodiil all his life thanks to agencies as yet unknown. That makes Dumbledore worried.

He has also been raised by the Arch-Mage Ra'jirra, and found to be a magical prodigy. That also makes Dumbledore worried.

Somehow Ra'jirra detected Dumbledore's use of Legillimency on him, and found out about Voldemort. That makes Dumbledore not only worried, but downright panicky.

However, after some horse-trading, Harry is finally back on Earth and about to spend the next ten months under his wing as Headmaster of Hogwarts – a situation that gives Dumbledore a false sense of security.

After all, he now has a full month to revise his plans...

**The Shrieking Shack, Hogsmeade, 1 August 1991CE**

Harry looked up at the enormous figure with some trepidation. Nords were plenty big enough, but this man – even without all the hair – was easily eight feet tall. If it wasn't for the ridiculously endearing look in his eyes Harry would have assumed he was some sort of beast out of Skyrim.

"Good Lor'!" The man's eyes were actually brimming with tears for some reason. "Li'l Harry Potter! It seems so long since..." a suitably sized spotted handkerchief emerged from a pocket and was applied to said eyes.

"Steady, Hagrid," Dumbledore said smoothly, patting the huge man's arm understandingly, before turning to Harry. "He was there when... when we found you, after..."

"After Voldemort killed my parents." Harry spat the name out like a curse, then rubbed the scar on his forehead. It seemed to be throbbing for some reason.

"Watch it 'Arry!" Hagrid waved his arms in frantic shushing motions and everyone else ducked. "You don't mention _'is_ name unless you want You-Know-Who after yer!"

"There are spells to identify when certain words or phrases are spoken," Dumbledore explained to a confused Harry, "and he used those to find his opponents."

"An' kill 'em," Hagrid added, "'orribly."

Harry rubbed his scar again. While offing this Voldemort would be the end of his quest, not being able to discuss... "What about his followers?"

"Oh, they're still around," Dumbledore shrugged, "but they're scattered, and quite a few are imprisoned..." he trailed off. Hagrid's face behind his wild hair looked like a will-o-wisp seen through underbrush.

"But for now, that's neither here nor there," Dumbledore continued as though nothing had happened. "Hagrid, you have the transport?"

"Right outside," the huge man rumbled, pulling himself together, "Time we were leaving, eh?"

Harry didn't answer; he was looking at the wall where a portal had been, his family and Faregyl on the other side.

As opposed to this strange new world and this strange old man keeping things from him.

**Above Nottingham business district, about 8:30pm**

Harry didn't know if he was about to scream or not. The 'transport' turned out to be a contraption Hagrid identified as a 'motor-bike': two wheels and a noisy engine, with a sort of carriage on the side in which Harry had ridden.

As the machine was evidently meant to travel on the ground, having it suddenly take off into the sky was even less welcome than its rather bumpy ride.

The flight south was interesting enough, what with the lights of towns below, but Harry was more concerned about the fact that he was flying in a vehicle clearly _not_ designed for it. Apparently this world's magical folk preferred to simply enchant whatever was laying around than purchase a specific –

"Hagrid?"

"Wha's that?" The huge man bent down to hear him over the wind noise and Harry convulsively gripped the sidecar as the motorcycle tilted alarmingly.

"Does everyone fly like this?" He had to repeat himself twice before Hagrid understood.

"Oh, goodness no, this 'un's a special!" Hagrid patted the machines handles. "Mos' folk prefer to use the Floo, or ride on a broom, or –"

"A _broom?_" This world was getting worse by the moment. Not even Dad would believe _that!_

"Yeh! Jus' wait until y' see yer first Quidditch game, ye'll love it!"

Harry didn't notice. He was staring over the side of the nearly capsized motorbike at the passing lights of Nottingham. The fact both of them had only to turn their heads left to do so, as opposed to looking over the side, registered in Hagrid's brain.

"Oh, sorry," and the British Isles rolled out of Harry's terrified view to beneath them.

Even Earnest Haines, of whom he'd heard Dad speak of, had taken the time to even _try _to explain how things worked, or fill in the background. These wizards, however, seemed to think he already knew.

"Don't ye fly on brooms, where ye come from?" Harry almost didn't hear Hagrid.

"Fly? No! We're trying to discover how!"

Hagrid stared at Harry in disbelief. The idea that somewhere, wizards didn't fly, rattled about in his mind, unable to get a purchase. _All_ wizards knew about flying on brooms, that was obvious, jus' look at the Quidditch Worl' Cup, all roun' the world wizards young and ol' –

"_Hagrid!"_

**Top floor, Harvestide Insurance Building, Nottingham NG1 1 [1]**

A muffled shout had attracted his attention. Which for Prakash wasn't easy, given that the boring nature of cleaning work gave him ample opportunity for daydreaming, usually about cricket, films, football and his girl.

Then again, the light shining from outside also helped him focus.

Outside the office window was something impossible. Motorcycles do not fly. Not even old motorbikes with sidecars. And _definitely_ not old motorbikes with huge hairy men driving, bent over a terrified boy pointing at him.

And _absolutely_ not tilted at _that _angle.

The big man finally turned and looked at him blankly for what felt like days before nearly jumping off the bike, then wrenched the handlebars, making the machine turn sharply, but not before the sidecar's wheel thumped against the glass.

The hapless man stared at the window, which was still quivering slightly, then at his cleaning supplies. There were all sorts of chemicals in there, and quite a few had warnings about use in enclosed spaces...

In the end, Prakash and his doctor both agreed he had been overcome by fumes, much to the annoyance of his employers, since they now had to spend money on additional protective gear and extra training.

While a reasonable, perfectly logical explanation, it didn't explain the tire-mark on the _outside_ of the window though.

**The Granger Residence, High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire HP13 5, about 9pm [2]**

"'Ere we are 'Arry," Hagrid said happily as he brought the motorbike to a very welcome stop in front of a modest house in a side street.

Harry just sighed, also happily. After the near-crash Hagrid had decided to stick to driving, or piloting, or whatever he did to control his vehicle, eventually returning to earth on a road signs identified as the A128 before continuing south. Trees lining the road had eventually given way to gardens and houses, all soused with amberish light from the many streetlamps. _There must be a small army of lamplighters,_ Harry thought quite understandably.

The man who answered Hagrid's 'knock' – which looked more like an attempt to break the door down – was an unassuming chap with dark hair who looked unsurprised to have a huge man and a boy appear at his door late at night. "You must be Hagrid," he said, then looked down at Harry. "And you're Harry Potter, right?" He stuck out his hand. "I'm Mr Granger."

**Footnotes**

[1] Judging from Google Street View, there are no office buildings high enough for a near-miss to be feasible, let alone seen by only one person. Harvestide Insurance is a fictitious company on fictitious premises.

[2] The Grangers' address was spun from whole cloth, as I couldn't find any conclusive information one town or the other. Do _not_ pester the good folk of High Wycombe.

Finally, I chose High Wycombe solely because it seemed to be a reasonable distance away from, but close enough to London for a trip to Diagon Alley to be feasible. The fact that its postal code is evocative, please be aware, has _nothing_ to do with it!


	6. Chapter 6

**For those who came in late...**

Harry has been found after vanishing off the stoop of the Dursley residence. This has led, ten years on, to headaches for Dumbledore, McGonnagal, the rest of the Hogwarts staff, and Ra'jirra, Arch-Mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild.

It has also led to the on-site mincing of an unfortunate rat close to the Imperial Bridge, but never mind.

Additional casualties include a cleaner who to this day is convinced what he saw flying at him one night was a hallucination caused by fumes.

All of which may be eclipsed by a possible homicide...

[EDIT: After criticism, added references to electric lights and modified the lavatory reference.]

**The Granger Residence, High Wycombe, about 9:15pm**

Hermione, Harry had decided, was _annoying._

She was, actually, _worse_ than annoying. Her first excited remarks were as follows: "Harry Potter? I've read all about you in _Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century._"

Harry had just stared at the bushy-haired girl in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

"Well of course you're in there!" Someone had written it, she believed it, that settled it. "You defeated You-Know-Who..."

"This Voldemort n'wah," Harry said flatly.

Hermione looked blank for a bit, then she rallied, "And then you vanished for the last ten years. Everyone's been searching for you, but..."

"Faregyl," Harry said in a tone of finality.

Hermione attempted to fit that into her mental picture. "Sounds Irish," she said at last, "but they tried all over Britain and Ireland, and I don't think..."

She immediately turned and shot into what the Grangers called the 'living room', and Harry breathed a sigh of relief for the break. A cough brought Harry's attention to Hagrid, who had somehow managed to navigate the house without breaking anything.

"I've put yeh luggage in the spare bedroom," the huge man said, "it's up the stairs there, turn roun' to the left and secon' on the right." He then nodded toward the sounds of rummaging. "I heard what Professor McGonnagall said about 'Ermione there, she likes her book learnin' she does."

"That's our 'Mione," Mr Granger chuckled and went after her, running interference.

Harry had strong biases thanks to his stepfather.

_I got where I was the hard way, son, _he had said once, _actually the bloody hardest way of all. You'll have it a bit easier, you're already gifted, but you won't need to be offing blimmin' millennia-old corpse-humpers to do it. Just remember: books aren't everything. They'll help you with practice, but that's all. Practice, boy, makes perfect._

"Um... thanks, Hagrid," Harry managed to say at last. "And thanks for..." he dropped one hand to the amulet that was resting on a pewter chain around his neck.

"No problem," Hagrid replied, "Jus' 'member to keep it under yeh clothes an' nobody'll notice."

"Have you eaten at all?" This was Mrs Granger, who had finally emerged from what Harry hoped was the kitchen. "I can warm up some leftovers..."

Harry's stomach decided that something solid would be very nice indeed, and said so loudly.

"As long as it isn't rat," Harry seconded the motion.

As it turned out, rat wasn't on the menu. Instead Harry was presented with a dish of what turned out to be mashed potatoes, along with roasted pork and peas. Harry tucked in with gusto until Hermione came up to him lugging an immense volume open to a highly detailed map.

"I can't find Faregyl anywhere," she said crossly, "Can you show me it?"

"Hermione!" her mother exclaimed, "haven't I told you not to do that when people are eating?"

"But mum! I can't find this Faregyl anywhere!"

"Not _now._" Harry understood the iron tone at once. Hermione huffed, but yielded.

The front door opened and closed around speech Harry wasn't listening to, and Mr Granger entered the kitchen.

"You timed it well," he said, "Tomorrow's Sunday, and we can get you some extra clothes." He then grimaced comically. "In between our 'Mione's questions."

Harry stopped eating and looked down at his sturdy tan shirt, brown leggings, and scuffed cloth shoes. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Well..." the two looked at each other, then Mr Granger turned back to him. "It's... well, they're not everyday wear around here, and... you'll stand out. You look like you... um..."

"Time-travelled from the Middle Ages," Mrs Granger finished with a grin.

Harry considered that. The idea of fronting up to his mates sporting whatever people wore here was interesting, and then he thought of Voldemort. _Best not to stand out I s'pose._

"All right then," he submitted to their better judgement.

**The Granger Residence, about 10:30pm**

Neither Harry nor Hermione were asleep, for different reasons.

Harry's head was in turmoil as the reality of his situation pressed down on him; it was the toilet, of all things, that had brought it home. The idea of a privy _inside_ a building wasn't new to him, he'd heard that houses in the Imperial City had 'thieves' gates' in their basements. But here they piped the crap away in a flood of water, and you wiped your arse with specially made paper! It was years ahead of the dock plant outside the inn's long-drop.

The marvel of lamps controlled by little switches on walls paled in comparison.

Hermione's head, on the other hand, was awhirl with questions she wanted to ask The Boy Who Lived. Despite scouring her atlas, no sign of Faregyl had been found; where _was_ it? How had he got there? What were his family like? Why was he wearing those clothes? When did he find out he was a wizard?

All those and more arranged and rearranged themselves on the list in her head until a sound broke her concentration from Harry's room.

As quietly as she could, she tiptoed up to his door and listened.

He was saying his prayers, like a good boy brought up to respect the Nine Divines.

**Central Milton Keynes Shopping Centre, late morning Sunday**

Harry was feeling overwhelmed.

While Hermione _had_ managed to keep her questions in check during breakfast, the car ride to Milton Keynes had been full of them. Some he answered as short as possible, others he couldn't; however, Hermione was also prone to disgorging knowledge at the drop of a hat.

"Hold on," he said irritably at one point, "so you're saying I'm some sort of hero because this Voldemort tripped on his own spell?"

Hermione frowned at that. "I don't think you understand. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named used the Killing Curse on you, and that curse _always_ kills when it hits. For you to survive..." she flailed her hand about looking for words, but Harry found them first.

"The Gods must have marked me."

He looked down at the book he'd brought with him, a piece of home. _Ten Commands, Nine Divines._ His eye was drawn to the eighth command.

_Julianos says: Know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise._

"Gods?" Hermione peered over at the book and furrowed her brow at the Aldmeris.

"The Nine Divines," Harry said, "now can you give me a break?"

Hermione was about to ask another question but managed to change it to a request to have a closer look at his book. The commands of the Nine kept her more or less quiet as she attempted to decipher them the rest of the way.

The shopping centre itself almost reminded Harry of the few times Dad had taken him and the family into the Imperial City's Market District, except that this place was entirely roofed over and was actually straight. Also unlike the Market District, every shop here seemed to be made almost entirely out of glass, the goods inside brightly lit.

The first clothing store they went to ("The Gap", it was called for some reason) left Harry icy cold. The various shirts and tops were garish – to his eyes – and almost all sported heraldry he couldn't identify, never having seen the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Transformers, or even one football team.

By the time they left Marks & Spencers, Harry was the owner of two pairs of heavy pants Hermione identified as 'jeans', five sets of plain t-shirts, four 'pullovers', as well as sets of underwear and socks.

Sourcing decent shoes was also an ordeal. Harry's observation inclined him towards footwear he recognised, while Hermione did her best to get him into 'age-appropriate' varieties. In the end Harry's feet in dark sneakers would walk on England's mountains green.

"How come you didn't haggle?" Harry finally asked at one point. He knew the drill, after all: the shopkeeper named a larcenous number – the customer made an insulting counter-offer – and so the deal seesawed towards the happy middle.

"Oh, we don't haggle here," Mrs Granger just looked at him strangely. "The prices are already set by head office! If we even tried we'd be kicked out of the store!"

Harry tried to comprehend this, which was a little difficult with Hermione rattling away in his ear. Apparently it was something to do with stores selling chain and not enough time or something like that.

"Don't know about you, but I'm all shopped out," Mr Granger said to Harry, causing his wife to snort and bat him on the arm. "Time for some lunch, don't you think?"

The idea of food sounded good (not to mention comprehensible) to Harry, so he dutifully followed the Grangers as they headed towards an exit and a tree in the distance. It reminded him of the Great Oak in Chorrol.

And thus Harry was introduced to the Earth idea of fast food. Munching dutifully on his Whopper, he decided that it was an experience he could at least _say_ he had. What he wouldn't give for one of those nice Khajiiti wraps with spice and refried beans, or one of Mum's venison pies...

"But I want the _Batmobile!_" The voice was about eleven years old. The maturity level was roughly four, being generous. The volume was attention-getting.

Involuntarily, Harry looked to the counter like everyone else. The sight was that of a rotund family, consisting of a frumpy elongated woman, something that to Harry's eye resembled a huge tomato on a hill of suet, and one of the reddest and angriest looking men he'd ever seen, currently laying into the hapless server for upsetting the tomato, apparently called Dudley or Dudders.

"Some people," Mrs Granger shuddered, "shouldn't have children. Did you see how big that boy was? He'll grow up to be a proper monster."

"Piglet," Harry said.

Three pairs of puzzled eyes looked at him.

"Well, then they can sell him off for bacon," he grinned impudently, ignoring Hermione's attempts to punch him in the arm.

**High Wycombe Public Library, Sunday afternoon**

Harry was used to two sorts of libraries: private and merchant. He shuddered involuntarily, remembering how Phintias would glare at him if he so much as _dared_ to take a closer look at his precious books. Prick.

This library, however, was different. All you needed was a card of some sort – Harry couldn't tell what – and you could _borrow_ books – actually take them out of the building – for several weeks! No solemn oaths, no long hours in stuffy rooms poring over copies sometimes chained to the shelves. Harry sometimes wondered what was so dangerous about books that they needed to be chained up.

Hermione automatically took charge, and soon Harry found himself with a pile of books, mostly 'nonfiction'. He winced. While Dad had explained that the writing they used in the Capital Wasteland was simply different letters from Aldmeris, he wasn't looking forward to trying to read a book, let alone _this _many. Hopefully there'd be plenty of pictures.

"These are all about how us muggles live," Hermione explained, "so you won't make any mistakes showing you're a wizard."

"Huh?" was Harry's intelligent response.

"The wizarding world is in hiding. It's to do with the witch burnings of the 1600s, the Spanish Inquisition and so forth. Now they live under the Statute of Secrecy to protect them from any potential threat from muggles."

"Mundanes," Harry said absently.

"Huh?" was Hermione's intelligent response.

"Dad hates the term 'muggle'," Harry explained, "he insists on Mundane."

Hermione actually had to think about that. "It _does_ sound a bit childish doesn't it?" she finally admitted, "Anyhow, these should give you a decent grounding in how we live and how things work, so you won't make too many mistakes. And when we take you to Diagon Alley next weekend, we can get some extra books about the wizarding world! Now, help me with these and we'll head home." For a twelve year old girl, Harry had to admit she was able to lug a stack of books with the best of them.

He had a nasty feeling school was about to start early.


	7. Chapter 7

**For those who came in late:**

Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived (and subsequently was inexplicably brought to Cyrodiil and reared by the Arch-Mage, Ra'jirra), has returned to learn more about his roots, how the magic of his world works, and just what a fully functional Earth civilisation is _really _like, as opposed to a post-nuclear-war one.

Already in the space of a day he has learned that Hermione Granger can be an absolute devil for knowledge, gone clothes shopping, and seen his relatives in passing and a poor light.

Next stop: Diagon Alley...

**The Leaky Cauldron, late morning, 9 October**

A week had passed since Harry's whirlwind exposure to shopping malls, contemporary fashions, hamburgers, public libraries and Hermione. His thoughts, which he rather childishly transferred to paper, could be summarised quite neatly.

Hamburgers were his least favourite food. On the other hand, the Grangers liked their Indian, and so did Harry, the spices making him think of Mum's traditional Khajiiti fare. As opposed to most other food, which seemed to be either salty or sweet.

Hermione was trying at times, generally when he was attempting to explain the bleeding obvious, even more so when she was asking him abstruse questions about magic.

Public libraries were great. The books Hermione had picked out for him turned out to have sufficient pictures, after all, and he copied copiously.

He didn't entirely like the prevailing fashions. The jeans were heavy and impeded movement, the shoes felt unpleasantly soft and squishy, and then there was the business with his dagger.

This was a blade he was quite comfortable with, having been taught to respect it ("Respect your weapon, son, and it'll respect you," Dad had repeatedly said.) Alas, his dagger how had to stay at home. People here didn't carry weapons and left defence to the town guard ('police' or 'cops' they were called.)

"Besides," Mr Granger had explained to him, "if someone saw you with it, they'd probably call the police and they'd confiscate it from you."

"So?" Harry had asked innocently, "I can just pay the fine and–"

"Um... no. They wouldn't give it back."

Harry had been absolutely flabbergasted at that.

"Besides, they'd be asking how a boy like you had a silver dagger like that."

Harry was encouraged to think about it, and short of performing magic... ah, wait. He might have to leave his _silver_ dagger at home, but there was the spell Dad had taught him for _ conjuring_ one...

The Grangers had thought they'd won that argument at the time.

Right now, Harry was seriously considering invoking that spell.

The car trip this time had taken far longer, as they entered the outskirts of London, which Hermione assured him was even larger than Milton Keynes. Alternately reassuring each other that they were heading the right way and complaining about parking fees and the one way system, they finally stopped in a somewhat run-down street, whose main feature was an equally tired establishment called _The Leaky Cauldron._

"Here we are," Mr Granger said, "We'll just go in and someone should be waiting to escort us into Diagon Alley."

Inside, the tavern was worn like Dad's cuirass, the sheen and stiffness rubbed and buffed out to make room for personal comfort. The bar was slightly dusty dark wood, which matched the dado on the walls, propping up faded wallpaper and lit by candles.

The patrons drinking or lunching, Harry noted, were a motley mixture of people in robes, or in outfits evidently supposed to blend in with the mundane folk. The operative word, there, being _supposed._ Harry decided their clothiers were incompetent or blind.

"How do," said a figure behind the bar, "Mr Granger is it? What brings you back to the Alley?"

"We need to pick up some more supplies, ah, Tom," Mr Granger replied, "for young Harry here."

"Plenty of Harrys about these days," Tom chuckled, "Folks want to honour The Boy... Who..."

Tom was staring at Harry – more precisely, at his forehead.

"Boy-Who-What?" Harry asked irritably, "and stop staring at me."

"The Boy-Who-Lived." Tom sounded like he could be knocked over with a feather. "Harry Potter! Here in my pub!"

Too late Harry remembered what Hermione had told him last Wednesday.

**The Daily Prophet, the following day**

_BOY-WHO-LIVED LIVES!_

_HARRY POTTER SEEN IN LEAKY CAULDRON & DIAGON ALLEY_

_By Ms. Rita Skeeter_

_For nigh on ten years since You-Know-Who's attack on him in Godric's Hollow, following the craven betrayal by his putative godfather Sirius Black, Harry Potter, the legendary Boy-Who-Lived, has been missing. Not even our own Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwhump and Headmaster of our most prestigious school, Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has been able to locate his whereabouts._

_No longer! Eye-witness reports, including the observations of this reporter, confirm that the Boy-Who-Lived once again walks among us – for yesterday he was the centre of attention in The Leaky Cauldron, albeit accompanied by a muggleborn and her family._

_It is unfortunate that the well wishes of the wizarding world caused spontaneous magic, namely the electrocution of one Ebenezer Crouch. My sources have it that Mr Crouch (no relation of the well-known Bartholomew Crouch) believes that not only was he in the wrong to, as he puts it, 'jump on the poor lad unexpectedly', but is also touched by the fact that he experienced the Boy-Who-Lived's magic first-hand..._

**Actually, back in The Leaky Cauldron:**

"Harry Potter?" The fellow who approached was gaping like a freshly landed fish. "You defeated Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Can I shake your hand?"

Harry stood there as if in a dream and watched the otherwise dignified man grab his hand and pump it in a too-hard grip. "Ebenezer Crouch, sir! I never thought I'd ever meet The Boy-Who-Lived in person..."

The rest of the fool's gabbling was swallowed up by the rising babble of the other patrons as they abandoned food and drink to converge on him. Out of the noise he made out repetition of: "The Boy-Who-Lived!" – "Can I see your scar?" – "Fought You-Know-Who" –

Tom noticed the tensing and the wide eyes of not only Harry, but also the Grangers, and tried a little too late to stem the hysteria.

Harry felt like he was being crushed by a mob of lunatics with blind staring eyes and expressions of adulation. It was only understandable that he would grab for the first spell that came to mind.

And so it was that Ebenezer Crouch was the first wizard to experience Tamrielic magic. The experience was very similar to being electrocuted, as that was what happened to him.

Harry looked up at the crowd, unconsciously slipping into a combat stance. The crowd just gaped at him, trying to correlate the legends of the Boy-Who-Lived with the Boy-Who-Was-Extremely-Upset-And-Pissed-Off in front of them.

"Accidental magic, sir," Tom said into the silence, shutting Harry's mouth with a look as he picked up the slightly quivering Crouch and helped him to a chair, "after all, you lot barging into his face probably scared him to death! Now come on, get on with you all! Now then Harry," and Tom turned back to them as the patrons withdrew to their tables, "I'll get you into Diagon Alley before your _fans_ scare you again." He sent a meaningful look around the room.

Tom led them into a short back alley and extracted a wand from a pocket.

"Be very careful about that sort of magic, master Potter," he said, looking straight at Harry grimly, "I'm not stupid, and I know you were ready to cast again. Lightning was it?"

"No sir," Harry replied flatly, "Conjured dagger. Dad always says if you want to scare someone, threaten to gut 'em."

Tom just looked at him. "Not here," he said cryptically, then tapped several bricks in the end wall with his wand.

Space unfolded before them, and Harry finally beheld the wizarding world.

It reminded him of when he'd visited Market Street in Skingrad.

**Rita Skeeter went on to say:**

_Then there is the ugly display of temper against the son of Lord Malfoy, one of our finest families, in Madame Malkin's establishment. Master Draco Malfoy is a fine upstanding boy, yet the Boy-Who-Lived seems to have taken a dislike to him. One assistant of Mme. Malkin's claims to have heard our greatest hero address the scion of Malfoy as, severally, 'Lord Snotling', 's'wit', 'n'wah' and 'fetcher', before striking him without warning._

_One must ask: Where has the Boy-Who-Lived been living all these years? Why does he not know, or apparently care, about those people who are pillars of our community and the backbones of wizarding society?_

_Is the Boy-Who-Lived truly our saviour? Or is he already turning down the same path as Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?_

**Outside Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions**

"I'm very disappointed in you," Mr Granger said sternly to Harry as he escorted the boy none too gently away from the clothier's and the small crowd that had gathered – most of whom were more interested in the bloody-nosed state of Draco Malfoy, to be honest.

"What for?" Harry looked up at the man angrily. "That brat offered insult to you and your family! That's proper grounds for seeking satisfaction isn't it?"

"It was just words, Harry," Hermione said, but her tone said volumes.

"Balls." Harry was spitting tacks. "That pampered Little Lord Snotling basically damned you as subhuman! And then he has the nerve to suggest we should be friends!"

"Harry!" Mr Granger tightened his grip on the boy's collar. "If you can't control yourself when provoked, I will!"

If Mr Granger had known about the rather forceful methods of discipline common in Cyrodiil, he wouldn't have been so surprised at how quickly Harry submitted.

"Alright, I'm sorry," the boy muttered, "Anyway, honour has been satisfied. With any luck, he'll have learned to keep a civil tongue."

"Just remember we'll be spending the school year with him," Hermione said warningly.

A witch carrying a cloth bundle popped into existence in front of them.

"Excuse me," she said by way of greeting, "but you forgot master Potter's robes."

"Oh!" Harry immediately went for his belt pouch. "How much do I–"

"Three galleons and two sickles – I'm afraid Madame raised the price because of your actions."

"There," Mr Granger said with a small smile, "see where a short temper gets you?"

"Oh," the witch responded, "while Madame was unhappy, I just _loved _seeing one of those stuck-up Malfoys taken down a peg or two!"

Harry took his new clothes and his change with a frown. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, because of their money, Lord Malfoy was able to avoid trial as a Death Eater." The witch's face showed what she thought of _that._ "And he basically runs the Ministry, so nobody can touch him. Look, I'd better get back to the shop, so..."

And she vanished with another pop of displaced air.

**Subsequently, Inside Ollivander's:**

"Master Harry Potter," the dust-coloured man said by way of greeting.

All four jumped. It was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself; after all, he was _the_ leading master of wandcraft in Britain. As such, he was entitled to a little respect. Especially after the visit from that Malfoy _brat._

"I remember your parents' wands," he went on, watching the boy's expression shift from surprise to wariness to confusion. "James was mahogany, eleven inches, pliable, excellent for Transfiguration; Lily was willow, ten and a quarter inches, swishy, suited to Charms."

"You knew my blood parents?" Harry finally asked.

"I remember every wand I have sold," Ollivander declared, "and I can certainly help you find the wand you will need."

"But I've never needed a wand before!"

"Oh?" The old man looked unimpressed. "Then if you already can perform wandless magic, imagine what you will be able to do with the right wand!"

"Harry," Hermione broke in, "the wand acts as a focus for your power. Sort of concentrates it."

She reached into her jacket and withdrew a slender tapered rod of light-coloured wood, which appeared to have veins wrapping around it.

"Vine with dragon heartstring core, ten and three-quarter inches," Ollivander intoned, having somehow acquired several thin boxes in that short space of time. "Which should stand you in good stead in your classes."

He placed the boxes on the counter save one, then turned to an as-yet unconvinced Harry.

"The wand chooses the wizard. That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore..." Ollivander trailed off as Harry's face betrayed his incomprehension. "If you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand."

He opened the box and extended it to Harry. "Here. Holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather. Wave it around and see how it feels."

As Harry's fingers closed around it, for the first time in Ollivander's experience, a wand _screamed._

So did Harry, jerking his hand away with a pained cry of, "Arkay's blood and balls!"

Ollivander stared mesmerised at the now twisting, _smouldering_ wand that lay on the floor of the shop. "I never saw..." he trailed off and looked up at the boy.

"That wand has a brother," he said, eyeing the scar on Harry's forehead, "Thirteen and a half inches, yew, phoenix feather – the same phoenix in fact." He swallowed. "It gave you that scar."

"What?" Harry snapped, more out of fear than pain.

"Still," and the old man turned back to the counter, "we need to find your wand. Let us try something in willow..."

It took seven wands, one bank of suddenly frozen shelves, the cash register briefly bursting aflame, the Grangers deciding to wait out the front until any further danger was past, that Harry finally felt a warmth spread from the wand he held all the way into his core, before welling out again like a fountain. A great burst of colourful sparks hosed from the wands tip as he watched in amazement.

"Holly, twelve and a quarter inches, dragon heartstring," Ollivander intoned, "firm and well balanced in its talents. A stalwart wand, young Potter, which will grow to know you and be an able companion in great deeds."

"Like killing Voldemort," Harry declared flatly.

"As I said," Ollivander's expression cracked slightly at the mention of the name, "great deeds."

Harry paid the four galleons without argument, just wanting to get out of the shop and examine his new prize.

Ollivander frowned and looked down at the ruined wand, before collecting the rejected ones and putting them back. He then picked up the brother of Voldemort's wand and frowned.

It wasn't the decidedly... _anguished..._ shape the wand had convulsed into that bothered him. Nor was it the horrible sound it had made. Nor was it the blackened spots where Harry's fingers had touched it.

The old wandmaker brought the ruined wand up to the light and peered closer.

The pits that now scored it looked like bite marks.

_Like the bite of a dragon,_ he thought in wonderment.


	8. Chapter 8

**For those who came in late:**

Harry's been raised by my own Oblivion character, it turns out Earth mages can do tricks that have the Tamrielic mages drooling, and Ra'jirra's sent Harry off to fulfil his destiny (i.e. bowl this Voldemort s'wit) and learn how they do what they do.

As such he's nearly been in a head-on with a building, met the Grangers, almost met his rellies, punched Draco Malfoy in the nose, and caused a wand to die in the most alarming way.

And now he's about to meet his familiar...

**The Leaky Cauldron, one eventful shopping trip later**

Tom was ostensibly doing the crossword in the _Daily Prophet_. Actually, the paper was a convenient screen for his jotting notes about the day for his report. Most of which wasn't of major import, simply reporting on what a) the wizarding affairs of the day, especially pertaining to the muggle world; b) what the average wizard thought of the muggle world; and c) making suggestions about what was needed to be done about it.

He had managed to survive not only several Ministers of Magic – a pack of tinpot dictators, the lot of them – but also the Voldemort years. Hell, he'd met the Dark Lord _before_ he went dark! All he had to do was tend the bar, keep his ears open, and report anything 'untoward' to the Ministry.

To several ministries, actually.

A green flash from the fireplace heralded the arrival of Dumbledore; Tom carefully shuffled some scathing remarks about the old fart from his contact under the mental rug as the old wizard beamed at him. No doubt he'd want to learn first off about Harry's little scuffle with Draco _before _the _Prophet _ended up throwing inferi or worse into their 'official' version.

**Inside the Magical Menagerie, about an hour after Harry and the Grangers left Diagon Alley**

"His familiar is a _what?_" Albus Dumbledore exclaimed.

"An _ophis pterotus,_" Eliza Durrell repeated patiently, "an Arabian Winged Serpent." She paused. "A ruby diamondback to be precise."

_This wouldn't do at all, _Albus thought to himself. "I, er... wouldn't have thought he was a snake person, that's all. So I'm surprised he would have chosen that..."

"He didn't choose her," Eliza explained, "_she_ chose _him._"

She had been about to provide the snake with another array of fruit – grapes, some mandarins, and a pomegranate – when it jerked its head out of its coils, looked at the shop door, and lunged past the startled saleswoman and out of its cage.

Her wings burst into scarlet action as she curved past two startled wizards regarding some alarming (and poisonous) orange snails, banked to avoid a screaming but otherwise dignified witch, and arrowed straight outside.

It wasn't hard for Eliza to locate the blasted reptile. She had wrapped herself around the wrist of a young black-haired boy in muggle clothing, and was looking into his face while hissing.

The family he was with were also muggles, and were staring at the pair. As Eliza closed in, she heard why.

The boy was hissing _back._

"Harry," the bushy-haired girl interrupted, "what are you _doing?_"

Harry and the snake turned to look at her with almost identical expressions of annoyance.

"Sallissi and I were talking," Harry Potter (those eyes! that scar!) replied, "what did you think were were doing?"

Albus took this information as well as could be expected.

"When I went to retrieve the serpent," Eliza went on, "it just hissed and tried to bite me – and the boy claimed _she _said she wasn't going back! And then the creature hisses again, and he says something about how she says he's been touched by one of the great serpents, and he thinks it's... um... Akatosh or something!"

Eliza had never experienced anything like this uniting of wizard and familiar; normally the wizard came to the familiar, not the other way around. However, she wasn't one to look a gift serpent in the mouth, so a deal was reached where Harry Potter now owned Sallissi for barely five galleons.

But what worried Dumbledore was that Harry was a Parselmouth – a Dark trait, thanks to his careful association of that talent with the Riddle boy. Visions of Harry entering Slytherin filled his head, then replaced with the red and gold colours described by Eliza. Perhaps he _would_ be sorted into Gryffindor after all – as he was intended.

He had a mistake to correct – desperately so – and as such he would stop at nothing to ensure it was. Perhaps he could prevent Harry from speaking Parseltongue, and maybe redirect his attachment to something more publicly palatable, such as a snowy owl.

The Greater Good, after all, took precedence over everything else.

But then there was McGonagall's memories to consider...

**Minerva McGonagall's Memories in the Pensieve**

Albus was seeing things from McGonagall's perspective. That was unusual. Normally you could walk around in a pensieved memory and view the action from anywhere you pleased, but not this time.

And he knew why. _Something_ had a... hand? No, a _talon_... resting on his left shoulder, one claw poised lightly over his heart. He had no illusions that if Minerva had tried to resist it would –

The claw pressed painfully as he – _Minerva_ – tried to see who or what it was. Albus could smell the odour of reptile and flame, however.

But he'd never heard of a dragon acting as intelligently as _this_.

The dragon – or creature shaped like a dragon – urged Minerva to go to Harry and pick him up. Dumbledore couldn't believe it! What creature would want to thwart his great redemption? How dare it –

The claw pressed hard, hard enough to break skin. At the same time the old man could feel the claw still resting against his breast. It was not a pleasant sensation either way.

Albus Dumbledore began to feel fear.

He knew what was coming. In the memory McGonnagal picked up the basket holding Harry, and the air tensed, before darkness fell like leathery wingbeats. Because that's what they were.

The dragon's wings parted to reveal he – no, McGonnagal – was standing in a time-worn shrine, a dais of stone inset with nine red diamonds, surrounded by as many columns, some broken with age. The talon turned her towards the largest building in a small village, next to a well and a sign. Albus knew it must be the 'Faregyl Inn' that the letters had been addressed to.

At the door, McGonnagal was stopped again, then pushed down. With great reluctance she bent and placed the baby before the door. At least the air suggested mid-spring; the infant Harry wouldn't freeze. But she would never know, as the wings wrapped around her before she returned to the street outside Number Four, Privet Drive.

The talon lifted from her – his – shoulder. She stumbled as another beat of wings nearly blew her over. She spun at once, wand raised, but there was nothing to see except the neurotic sameness of Little Whinging, beneath the bilious glower of the streetlights.

She tensed herself to apparate then, and the memory ended.

Albus quite understood that she had needed rather a lot of fortification after that ordeal. Even after just attempting to review her memories by pensieve, he needed some himself.

Mainly because of the wound, like that of some beast's claw, directly over his heart.

It hadn't been there when he entered the pensieve.

**Notes on Harry's _ophis pterotus_**

Harry has been chosen by a juvenile female Arabian Winged Serpent, about six months old. Already this animal has fledged its wings, and now sports its colours: red diamond patterns against a golden-sand background. Its feathers are also gold with a red underwing.

The wings are attached, like those of a bird, at the shoulders, generally located about 1/8th body-lengths away from the head; x-rays will show vestigial hip-bones about the cloaca region.

Arabian Winged Serpents are herbivores, and use their venom to pre-digest large fruits that cannot be swallowed in the same manner as a spider. This venom can also be used to inflict wounds on would-be predators, such as ibis or mongoose.

Adults can reach up to 40cm in length (Sallissa is only about 15cm long), with wingspans generally similar. Moulting occurs three times a year, during which their appetites increase and their tempers diminish. (Similar effects are caused by pregnancy, as these animals are live-bearers.) Typical lifespan in captivity is generally 12-14 years.

Like all snakes, the Arabian Winged Serpent is cold-blooded and cannot regulate its internal temperature well. However, it can generate some heat by flapping its wings, or retain it by sheltering beneath them.

I spin this monstrosity from the following threads:

_Herodotus, Histories 2. 75. 1 (trans. Godley) (Greek historian C5th B.C.) :_

"There is a place in Arabia not far from the town of Buto where I went to learn about the Winged Serpents. When I arrived there, I saw innumerable bones and backbones of serpents: many heaps of backbones, great and small and even smaller. This place, where the backbones lay scattered, is where a narrow mountain pass opens into a great plain, which adjoins the plain of Egypt. Winged serpents are said to fly from Arabia at the beginning of spring, making for Egypt; but the ibis birds encounter the invaders in this pass and kill them. The Arabians say that the ibis is greatly honored by the Egyptians for this service, and the Egyptians give the same reason for honoring these birds."

_Herodotus, Histories 3. 107. 1 :_

"Again, Arabia is the most distant to the south of all inhabited countries: and this is the only country which produces frankincense and myrrh and casia and cinnamon and gum-mastich. All these except myrrh are difficult for the Arabians to get. They gather frankincense by burning that storax which Phoinikians carry to Hellas; they burn this and so get the frankincense; for the spice-bearing trees are guarded by small Winged Snakes of varied color, many around each tree; these are the snakes that attack Egypt. Nothing except the smoke of storax will drive them away from the trees . . .

So too if the vipers and the Winged Serpents of Arabia were born in the natural manner of serpents life would be impossible for men; but as it is, when they copulate, while the male is in the act of procreation and as soon as he has ejaculated his seed, the female seizes him by the neck, and does not let go until she has bitten through. The male dies in the way described, but the female suffers in return for the male the following punishment: avenging their father, the young while they are still within the womb gnaw at their mother and eating through her bowels thus make their way out. Other snakes, that do no harm to men, lay eggs and hatch out a vast number of young. The Arabian Winged Serpents do indeed seem to be numerous; but that is because (although there are vipers in every land) these are all in Arabia and are found nowhere else."

_Aelian, On Animals 16. 41 :_

"Megasthenes states that in India there are . . . snakes (ophies) with wings, and that their visitations occur not during the daytime but by night, and that they emit urine which at once produces a festering wound on any body on which it may happen to drop."

_Wikipedia on D&D Winged Serpent:_

"As said before, winged serpents live in the tropics. They have no permanent lairs, hoard no treasure, and do not take care of their young, so one might presume them to have no cares. This is wrong, as the one thing that a winged serpent does live for is their primary nutrition; fruit. Fruit is the love of a wing serpent's live; they eat it constantly and cannot survive without it. They feast upon mangos, coconuts and such by first finding one, and then biting a hole in them. This injects the Winged serpent's corrosive venom and causes the insides of the fruit to liquify. The creature then sucks it out like juice. In addition to eating fruit, winged serpents also mate incessantly.

"...While their bite with its corrosive venom can do damage, it is rarely enough to do any serious harm, let alone kill an opponent...Winged serpents are invulnerable to lightning but vulnerable to fire. The best way to defeat one is to distract it by showing a lavish display of fruit.

"Winged serpents are not evil creatures. In fact, they are quite docile. They are sometimes tamed and kept as pets, although rarely, as with the massive amount of fruit they eat they are very expensive. They can be trained to do tricks, and can even act as guardians."


	9. Chapter 9

**For those who came in late:**

Harry's familiar found him, and it seems she's not the only serpent Harry's been 'touched' by. It remains to be seen whether Sallissa merely adores him for that, or something else.

Anyway, let us skip over the next couple of weeks of acclimatising to life in one of Earth's Western societies and –

Oh, don't look at me like that. There'll be flashbacks at appropriate moments.

Now then:

**King's Cross Station, between Platforms 9 and 10**

Two weeks still wasn't enough time to get used to so much _machinery_ all about him. And how here he was, trying to look at every train, every display, and so many people all at once.

Therefore it was understandable that it took him about five minutes to notice the change.

"Hermione," he said at last, "people aren't staring at us any more."

Her parents looked at each other, seeing something significant in how he'd addressed their daughter in particular, then looked and realised that he was right.

"_Just remember you owe me a mango,"_ Sallissa hissed petulantly from somewhere inside Harry's jersey. While it _was_ warm in there, it was also dark and confining, not to mention smelly, and only the promise of a nice fresh mango had enticed her inside where people couldn't gawk at her.

"This Platform 9¾ must be nearby," he added, frowning.

All four of them looked about, but the crowds made it difficult to see where it was hidden. For they were all certain that, like Diagon Alley, it _was_ hidden, and all that was needed was a guide.

Hermione elbowed Harry and nodded to a young boy with a trolley, like theirs, loaded with a trunk and a rat in a cage. He rolled at a decent clip past Platform 9, then...

The children lost him in the crowd.

"I bet they have Illusion charms on the entrance," Harry thought out loud, "so people don't notice where they go."

"Come on Ron!" the voice was matronly and authoritative. "Goodness, I swear there are more muggles around here every year..."

Harry and the Grangers turned to look at the speakers – who weren't hard to spot, as there were no less than seven shocks of red hair moving towards the platforms. As they closed in, they observed one matronly woman; a man obviously her husband; a young man well on the way to prathood, if his elevated nose was any indication; a pair of twins; their younger brother; and a young girl.

"Excuse me," Mr Granger asked as they approached, "are you heading for Platform 9¾?"

"Pardon?" The woman looked at them uncertainly, observing their clearly muggle clothing.

"This is Hermione," her father made introductions, "and this is Harry. They're starting Hogwarts this year."

"Mum!" the little girl didn't so much exclaim as bugle, "It's _Harry Potter!_"

"Ginevra," her mother declared, then got as far as "don't squeal like th..." before her brain registered the truth, engaged every gear at once and stalled.

"Yes, that's me," Harry said irritably, "now how in the name of Molag Bal's stinky balls do we get to Platform 9¾?"

"Do you _have_ to swear all the time?" Hermione asked him irritably.

"It makes people pay attention," Harry shrugged, "at least that's what Dad says."

"Pleased to meet you Harry," the patriarch said with a respectful nod – evidently he didn't want to risk experiencing Harry's now-legendary involuntary magic for himself. "I'm Arthur Weasley, that's my wife Molly, our eldest Percy, head boy this year –"

The prat-to-be swelled at that, his expanding chest thrusting out a small badge with the Earth letter P on it. Harry assumed it stood for something other that _prat _or _pompous prick._ Maybe Percy couldn't remember his name and had it as a reminder?

"– Fred and George –"

The twins executed a neatly synchronised bow that made Harry's head smart for some reason. They were so alike it was frightening.

"– Ron, he'll be starting his first year –"

Harry repressed a shiver at the frighteningly gormless smile that adorned the lower half of Ron's head.

"– And our youngest, Ginny – she'll be starting next year. Off to Hogwarts as well, eh?"

"Pleased to meet you," Harry replied, "This is the family I'm staying with: Mr and Mrs Granger, and their daughter Hermione. We're starting our first year as well."

"Did you hear that, Fred?" one of the twins said in mock surprise.

"Another pair of ickle firsties, I'd say George," the other replied.

"Isn't that nice Ronniekins?" George addressed the youngest boy, who rolled his eyes – evidently resigned to their ribbing, "You'll have company on the train –"

"– at least until you reach Hogwarts –" Fred continued, then they began to alternate.

"– And you might as well enjoy it – given what the Sorting's likely to be – probably wrestling a troll!"

"Stendarr's mercy!" Harry choked at the twins, "They wouldn't do that, would they?"

"No, they will _not!_" The matron was evidently good at ultimatums, and was about to continue but Harry was on a roll.

"I've bloody _seen _what trolls can do to people – bite the limbs clean off you – like that poor sod at Tiber Septim's shrine! Two Legionnaires dead and three injured before the damn thing was killed! Wrestling a troll? _That's fucking suicide!_"

"_Harry!_" The Grangers and the Weasleys were shocked at his vehemence, his shaking, and the look on his face. "What were you doing chasing trolls?" Hermione found her tongue first.

Harry came to his senses. "I was curious," he admitted with ducked head, "I wanted to know what a troll looked like. So I followed after the soldiers." Then he winced. "Dad gave me a hiding when he found out."

Molly Weasley came second in tongue-finding.

"Fred and George Weasley, you should know better than making us look like barbarians before the Muggles! No, dears," and she turned to face Harry and Hermione with a reassuring smile, "The Sorting's really quite simple, and _no danger–_"she glowered at the twins – "is involved at all. Now," and she turned to Ron, "Just push your cart straight towards the barrier and you'll go through. You might like to take a little run-up."

The boy Ron swallowed, freckled face turning a little pale. He gripped his luggage cart, started it moving, and was almost running when he was apparently about to crash into the barrier.

Which he didn't, the barrier seeming to suck him into itself.

"So that's how it's done," Harry said at last, "My turn next?"

"Let's all go together," Hermione suggested, "so we don't get separated."

As it turned out, this was a very good idea.

Unlike the rest of Kings Cross station, Platform 9¾ was predictably seemingly from an earlier age. A few stalls hawked papers and wizardly refreshments, at least those visible through the throng of robed figures did. As well as the eddying crowds around the portal, groups of figures also simply popped out of thin air and vanished again.

Adding to the confusion were billowing clouds of smoke and steam rising from an immense red machine at the distant end of the train.

"A steam engine," Mr Granger breathed.

"Makes sense," Hermione said, "modern technology and magic just don't get along."

"Why?" was Harry's reasonable question.

The responses, while silent, were interesting. Hermione took on a hunted expression – all the books she had read unanimously agreed that all but the most basic electrical devices ceased to function where magic was involved, but none explained _why_. The twins took on thoughtful expressions similar to that of Arthur's, but for different reasons. The rest of the Weasley family, however, went blank with incomprehension, not understanding why anyone could challenge something so obvious.

"Well..." Molly came back to the here and now. "We'd best get you on board before it departs. Fred – George – help Harry and – um – Hermione get their luggage to the luggage car, will you?"

**Several minutes later, last carriage on the Hogwarts Express**

"Thanks for letting me share a compartment with you Harry," Ron gushed.

"It's okay," Harry shrugged.

"I can't wait to tell the other Gryffindors that I travelled with the Boy-Who-Lived," Ron continued to gush. He didn't notice that Hermione was grinding her teeth behind the magical theory textbook she was reading.

"Did you really beat up Malfoy in Madame Malkin's?"

Harry finally turned from the scenery sliding past the window and looked at Ron.

"Honour was satisfied," he said at last. It was a truthful reply, albeit one lost on the redhead.

"I've run into him and his father before," Ron burbled at last, "they're always lording it over everyone else because of their ancestry and money. I wish I could've seen –"

The sound was so incongruous and unexpected that all three didn't recognise it at first. It took a third chorus before anyone recognised it as a toad, and more specifically, the unimpressed looking one sitting under Harry's seat.

"What in Oblivion is that doing here?" Harry was bent over staring at it, while it gazed indifferently at him. It was possible that its answering croak was meant to explain, but since Harry didn't speak amphibian, the toad was wasting its breath.

The sound of the compartment door opening made Harry unfold himself at look at the round-faced and clearly anxious boy who'd poked his head in.

"H-have any of you seen Tr-Trevor?"

"Who?" Ron asked.

"My t-toad," the boy explained miserably, "I-I don't know how he g-got out of his cage, but I-I've been searching for him everywhere..."

Harry got up and picked up the toad from its redoubt, earning a reproachful croak. "This wouldn't be him, by any chance?" _And what sort of loon calls a toad _Trevor _anyway?_

"It is!" The boy plucked the animal from Harry's grasp with an audible sigh of relief. "Y'you're Harry Potter, aren't you?" He blinked as if remembering something. His manners, apparently. "I'm Neville. N-Neville Longbottom."

Ron's stomach introduced itself by way of a basso borboryghmus with extra reverb, to which Ron replied, "I wonder when the sweet trolley's coming."

_'And where is my mango?'_ Salissa added with some heat.

As it happened, the sweet trolley didn't arrive for another fifteen minutes, which was filled with a slightly awkward conversation – more of an interrogation, really. It turned out Ron and Neville were from 'pureblood' wizarding families, which inevitably led to Hermione and occasionally Harry questioning them about how they lived their lives.

At one point, Harry gaped at Neville in disbelief. "Your uncle did _what!_"

"Dropped me out of a s-second-storey window," Neville repeated, Trevor adding a disapproving croak for emphasis.

Sallissa hissed around a rapidly deflating mango, and Harry laughed.

"What's so f-funny?" Neville asked.

"Sallissa reckons your uncle must be driven mad by a dearth of gooseberries in his diet to mistreat his young like that," Harry chuckled, then grew serious. "But all the same, if it hadn't worked, surely he knew he'd be off to the block for infan– infanda?– killing a child!"

"We don't have capital punishment here," Hermione said in a scandalised tone, neatly nipping any discussion of Parseltongue in the bud.

"He'd be sent off to Azkaban," Ron added blithely, "that's worse."

**Meanwhile, approaching Harry's compartment:**

Draco Malfoy swept – or at least did a close approximation – along the train towards the back, glancing into the compartments, occasionally stopping to speak to some of the other first years, making the connections to his fellow wizards of refinement. Those of pure blood, after all, needed to stay together, and keep the wizarding world working properly, as Father had repeatedly explained – often at length.

The sheer number of mudbloods though offended him. Father had explained how witches and wizards would forget their superior nature and lie (whatever that meant) with mud people to produce their mongrels. And the disgusting practice seemed to be spreading if what he saw was correct. The hallowed halls of Hogwarts were going to _reek_ of the mudbloods' stench.

It never occurred to the boy to challenge Father's views. After the incident with the asparagus, he knew better.

Crabbe and Goyle followed behind him, also dutifully following in their parental footsteps, loyal support to the ancient and noble house of Malfoy, looming enough to prevent any insolence. It was their family duty, one that every Crabbe and Goyle performed for the only _real_ aristocracy in the wizarding world. And they performed it to the best of their ability.

Until they got to the last compartment.

Draco swept the door open and regarded the occupants. He immediately recognised the Weasley oaf, the pathetic Longbottom jelly, and...

...the mudblood slut.

And the cold green eyes of _him._

"Draco." Harry spoke before Draco could. Father's face loomed in front of his own. _Explain to him you didn't realise he would take your remarks so poorly. Potter was after all raised by _foreigners._ Explain that there are relationships _worth_ cultivating–_

"What are you doing here Malfoy?" Ron was on his feet looking ready to fight. "Didn't you get enough at Madame Malkin's?"

"Weasley." Draco's attempt to sound calm and dignified came off, as usual, sounding more like a drawling sneer. Maybe if Lucius had been able to tell the difference...

"Ronald, I can fight my own fights." Harry was looking at the red-haired cretin coldly. Ron looked about to explode.

"What on earth would you want to listen to _him_ for?" Draco glared at Weasley – currently demonstrating the lack of self-control and pig-headedness Weasleys were famed for. "His family sided with You-Know-Who in the last war!"

To Draco's astonishment, Harry's eyebrows slammed together ominously. "So you think that because of what his father did, Draco will be the same?"

"Of course he will!" Ron turned to Harry and the rest of his tirade died as though Harry had cast a _silencio_ on him.

"My grandfather was a farmer," Harry said icily. "If children turn out the same as their parents, _how is it my father became the Arch-Mage instead?_"

Weasley continued to gape. Both Longbottom and the mudblood were staring at Harry as well. Draco carefully draped a smug look across his face, but forgot about the eyes.

"And since my father is a mage," Harry went on relentlessly, "Why is my brother a member of the Chorrol guard instead?"

Apparently Ron had hit a nerve.

"I don't know Draco Malfoy beyond some insults, which have been paid for," Harry went on relentlessly, "and I would thank you _not_ to make _my_ mind up for me."

The carefully prepared speech Draco had been preparing got wadded up and thrown away as Harry turned to him.

"I am here to learn as much as possible about your kind of magic," he said slowly, "and your world. Will you help me?"

Draco couldn't believe it. The Boy-Who-Punched-Him-In-the-Nose had just offered him an opportunity on a silver platter.

"Of course," he said at once, forcing himself to sound as calm and collected as his father would. "I'm sure you'll know that some families are more important than others."

Harry stood. "And help me kill this Voldemort?"

Draco didn't know it, but Crabbe and Goyle were also gaping as well. Ron was gaping already, and now Neville made them a quintet.

"I have sworn an oath before the Nine Divines that I will accept my destiny and slay this man." Harry grimaced. "Like Dad says, 'I'm not dumb enough to go against the gods'."

"Oh for heaven's sake!" Hermione dropped her book to her lap and glared at the boys. "It's not as if he's going to do it tomorrow or anything."

Draco barely heard her; he was looking directly at Potter. Who was looking back at him. It struck Draco that the Boy-Who-Lived was actually _serious._

Naturally Draco had heard tales of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, not only the official line but also the Death Eater gospel according to Father. Opponents of the Dark Lord tended to die in two ways: quickly (the more popular option) or slowly. The only person who had posed any serious threat to _Him_ was Dumbledore. And he was a wizard with over a hundred years of experience. Harry was only a boy. And yet...

Draco swallowed. Father had effectively _ordered_ him to apologise to Potter, in order to gain his trust. But this... Father would want to know about this. And what Potter was planning. And if it meant no Malfoy ever bending knee to anyone ever again...

"Of course I will," he whispered, then cleared his throat and schooled his expression out of its Weasley-style gape. "Of course," he managed to get out in a more normal tone, "my family can provide assistance others cannot."

Potter extended his hand and Draco shook it automatically, before making his excuses and departing.

"Was that a good idea?" Crabbe asked at last.

"I don't know," Draco managed to say, causing his two bodyguards to look at each other.


	10. Chapter 10

**For those who came in late:**

Harry's back on Earth (as opposed to Nirn) and also on the Hogwarts Express. He's thrown Draco's plans for a loop, not to mention caused some hirsuite damage to the worldviews of Neville Longbottom and Ronald Bilius Weasley.

The Sorting will cause even more damage, but before then...

**Hogwarts Express, two hours out from arrival**

"They _fly?_" Harry leaned forward, fascinated.

Ron grinned. After the horrid business with that stuck-up near-squib Draco, followed by falling for another of his twin brothers' jokes, the idea that Harry would be interested in Quidditch appealed to him.

"Yeah," he began before inserting one of Bertie Botts' produce into his maw, "it's all aerial and played on broo-_ugh!_"

He spat out the half-chewed confection, which was a lurid shade of green.

"Don't you like the taste?"

Ron shook his head and raised the packet for Harry's inspection. _Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans. _"When they say 'every flavour', they mean it," he explained, "that one? Vomit."

"_Vomit?_" Harry's face expressed his disbelief. First the chocolate frog which was actually _animated_ – who other than Sheogorath would want that? – now _this! _"Who in their right mind makes food that's inedible? Apart from bloody Maulhand I mean."

"Who?" Ron appeared to be making his uncomprehending expression a habit.

"Used to run the Inn of Ill Omen. Absolutely crap cook. My big sisters run it now."

Ron tried that in one brain lobe, then the other, then "Ah," as he understood.

"Anyway, what's Quidditch played on again?"

"Brooms," Ron explained, "And there's four balls, the Quaffle, two Bludgers – the Beaters use them to stop the Chasers from scoring – or the Seeker from getting the Snitch."

"Snitch?"

"Yeah. The Quaffle's worth ten points if you get it through the goals, you see? But the Snitch is worth a hundred and fifty, and ends the game."

Harry felt something was off with that.

"So, a game could stop as soon as it starts... just by lobbing a special ball into the goal?"

"No?" Ron looked at him as if he was daft. "You have to catch it, that's all. If you can. But do that too often and you won't get enough points to stay on the ladder..."

The explanation continued to slide past Harry's comprehension – except the emphasis on a team called the Chudley Cannons – until Hermione finally changed the subject.

"What house do you think you'll be in?"

"Gryffindor, of course." Ron nodded knowingly. "All us Weasleys were in Gryffindor."

"Gryffindor?" It took Harry a little while to remember that students were sorted into one of four houses while at school; the rhythmic sounds of train travel were having a soporific effect on him. "I guess we'll be together then." He turned to Hermione. "Which do you think you'll be in?"

"Ravenclaw," she replied after a moment's thought, "since they're supposed to be the smartest and most interested in learning."

"As long as I pass, I'll be fine," Ron shrugged, making Hermione bristle.

"As long as we don't wrestle any trolls," Harry replied with a straight face.

"_And_ as long as my brothers don't test any of their jokes on _us_," Ron added, "Slytherins, yes, us, no."

**At Hogwarts Castle**

The boats, propelled by Nine only knew what, rounded the bend to reveal Hogwarts Castle in all its illuminated splendour.

It reminded Harry of Bruma. Perhaps it was the chill in the northern air – he drew his school robe closer about himself. Hopefully there were no giant white minotaurs like the one that had nearly killed Dad running around...

At the same time, back home he only had to walk a couple of hours to the falls outside Charcoal Cave and he could see the magnificent spire of White Gold Tower. Hogwarts by comparison was dark and squat, even with all the lights.

Hogwarts vanished as the boats containing him, Hagrid and the other first year students entered an underground passage. It occurred to Harry that almost all adventures involved grubbing about in caves and ruins and all that. Except for the Nerevarine, or did prison ships count?

The bustle of children getting out of the boats jolted him from his reverie and he joined the crowd following Hagrid to a large doorway. Hagrid knocked thrice, in a slow manner that said _ritual,_ before the door was opened by Professor McGonnagal.

She informed them all that soon they would enter the Great Hall and be Sorted, before turning and walking away. Shortly thereafter –

"Ghosts!" Harry's hand went instinctively to the silver dagger at his waist as several silvery figures floated through the walls.

"Harry!" Hermione was aghast at his reaction. "There's nothing to be afraid of! There are over three hundred ghosts –"

"Oh don't worry girl," said one in a ridiculous ruff coupled with equally idiotic tight hose, "It'd be more than our unlives' worth to harm a student. Daffyd ap Merwyn, at your service. You'll be called in soon enough."

Harry fought against his training to return the dagger to its sheath. "You're not the sort of ghost I'm used to."

Daffyd eyed the dagger. "That you're used to ghosts trying to kill you is worrying." He eyed the boy with some concern. "Why on earth would you expect that?"

"Corpse-humpers." Harry spat. "They keep trying to establish a base near my home town."

"Necromancers!" The sound of several ghosts chorusing in disgust was one that Harry had never heard before. "Well, long may they _fail,"_ Daffyd said angrily.

No, Earth was definitely _not_ what Harry was expecting.

**During the Sorting**

"_GRYFFINDOR!"_

Draco Malfoy slowly lifted a hand weighing a ton, tugged the Sorting Hat off and let it fall; his unseeing eyes turned instinctively to the Slytherin table. The boy tottered to his feet before Professor McGonnagal grasped his shoulder.

"The Gryffindor table is that way," she informed him, before turning and gently pushing him that way.

The first Malfoy to be sorted into Gryffindor in about four hundred years managed to reach a seat before collapsing, unable to comprehend what had happened.

"That's weird," Ron murmured to Harry, "The Malfoys have always been in Slytherin."

"So?" Harry murmured back, "Times change. I hear the Countess of Leyawiin has changed her tune about the tailed folk since Dad was–"

Professor McGonnagal's glare silenced him.

The sorting dragged on. Given the strange way they used magic here, Harry was only mildly surprised that a singing hat was determining who went where. And like that man in the Leaky Cauldron had said, there _were_ a number of other Harrys, as well as Harriets, Harolds and one Harrison.

"Potter, Harry!"

Harry heaved a sigh of irritation. It was bad enough that he was already listed in _Famous Wizards and Witches of the Twentieth Century. _It was worse that he was also lionised in _Bedtime Tales for Little Witches and Wizards. _But for the life of him, he could not get used to the mindless way people _stared_ whenever they saw him, or that damnable scar that never healed over.

Truth be told, it was a good way of identifying wizards who were trying to blend in with the mundanes.

He sat down on the stool and the hat slid over his head, smelling of hair, nervousness and someone's shampoo.

_Draco's, actually._

Harry froze.

_Oh, it's just me, Harry. I'm analysing your mind to see where you will be sorted – officially. _Unofficially,_ this is a good time to have a little talk, but don't speak aloud._

"What about?" Harry barely whispered.

_Your destiny. I see that's at the forefront of your mind, but there's other matters we need to discuss as well. It's not just Mouldyshorts you have to worry about, it's what led to his creation._

"Which was?"

_I won't mince words. You've got the same potential as that _bastard_ to turn the wizarding world around, so that any more like _him_ won't stand a chance. But you'll need to deal with... ah, a Count Terentius. I hate to say it, but we have a few of those. Ah, not that you can simply make like... ah... Zul gro-Radagash did, mind._

"Sod."

_He didn't _really_ kill the last unicorn in Cyrodiil, did he? For heaven's sake, don't tell Hagrid, he'll be blubbering for weeks._

_Anyway, it's not just _him–

"It's his allies."

_You're smart, Harry. Yes, not just _his _allies, but those cravens who'll toss their lot in with him. They're the rot, and Voldemort is just another mushroom sprouting from it. And... you're still set on killing him? Oh, I see, your father presented it to you as a quest... good god._

"Huh?"

_That rat's _enormous! _I've never seen a rat that size! They don't grow that big round here! I mean..._

Harry felt a sense of relief mixed with amusement at the hat's shock. The wolf that had nearly killed him wasn't as frightening as rats were.

_Oh lord. Oh lord oh lord oh lord. Your bravery can't be denied, lad, let me tell you that. You've faced down undead, wolves, monster rats... but you're not thick. At the same time, you're not a bookish sort, unlike Ravenclaws, and you're not blindly loyal either. Even if I wasn't under orders, I'd sort you there myself._

"Orders?"

_I'll keep this short, people are beginning to worry. We want you to aid your friends – and the Malfoy boy – and keep them together and alive. I can't tell you why, it's too complicated. But with a little grooming they'll be the best Hogwarts has ever seen and strong allies in your quest, and in what comes after. So–_

"Child of the Dragon," the hat declared, "meet the lions of GRYFFINDOR!"

Unseen by Harry, who was trying not to run towards the table where Neville and Hermione were probably applauding the loudest, Dumbledore let out a sigh of relief. The unusually long time the hat had taken was seen by many as a sign of a Dark Lord a-borning, but fortunately Harry had indeed gone where he was supposed to: a brave Gryffindor warrior of the Light to finally vanquish Voldemort once and for all.

"Trust the boy to make a scene."

Dumbledore felt his hackles rise. If it wasn't for Snape's value, he would have sacked the prick decades ago. Unfortunately he had made his decision and he would simply have to put up with the consequences – even if that meant fewer healers and aurors than were really needed.

"He _is_ from another world, Severus," he finally said firmly, "No doubt the poor old hat couldn't make head or tail out of his mind."

Not for the first time the two locked gazes, to the irritation of the other professors, except Quirrel, who was nervously fidgeting in his chair.

"What was that 'child of the dragon' nonsense anyway?" Snape wasn't going to give up that easily. _Like father, like son, _was his motto. And James Potter was to him... well, being honest, he _had _been... an arrogant pampered bully.

Dumbledore frowned. "I remember seeing a dragon symbol on some of their shields. I suppose the hat picked up on that as well."

He wasn't entirely right, not that it mattered. Snape grumbled _again_ about Draco being sorted into Gryffindor until Professor Sinistra stamped on his foot.

The school song didn't help Snape's attitude all that much either.


	11. Chapter 11

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

After first contact about two months ago, and a bit of horse-trading, Harry has finally journeyed from Faregyl in Cyrodiil to Hogwarts in Scotland, via points in Birmingham, High Wycombe, Milton Keynes and London, before being sorted into Gryffindor, along with the canonical Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, and Ronald Weasley, as well as a non-canon and very shocked Draco Malfoy.

With the first years sorted, the food eaten, notices given and the school song murdered, it is time for our hero and his charges to retire...

**The Reverie of Draco Malfoy**

How how _how_ could I be a GRYFFINDOR? Malfoys are _Slytherins_ always have been always will be that's what Father told me but I'm not Slytherin am

I

really a Malfoy?

They all hate me I see it in their eyes even Harry doesn't really like me but he wants to kill V

Vol

_Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_

and he was _serious_

(and he broke my nose)

(_honour is satisfied, _he said)

He stood up for me though when that darkie said

_We're in the same team, n'wah, and we can't afford any Battle of Bruma bastardry, got it?_ But what was the Battle of Bruma? What happened there? What's a n'wah?

_What am I going to tell Father?_

_Father?_

_It's not my fault_

_(You certainly like to stand up for what you... believe... in... don't you? But I know where your Slytherin qualities are actually needed...)_

_They made me _GRYFFINDOR!

Father

don't be angry

please

**Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor common room:**

Lee Jordan couldn't sleep, so he got up and headed downstairs to the common room. He wasn't expecting to see two identical figures whispering together, or maybe he was seeing double.

"Look Fred – why George, can it be – one of our ickle firsties – having trouble sleeping!"

The Weasley Twins, already legendary pranksters.

"Yeh," Lee admitted, taking a seat, "I can't believe that stuck-up Malfoy is in _our_ House."

Much of the dinner conversation had been about predicting Draco's future, based on what was known about his background and personality – some of which was grounded in fact. Most of it was negative.

"Great isn't it?" one of the twins said happily.

"A sitting target," the other affirmed.

"A sitting duck," Lee corrected absently.

"I thought it was target – but you've given us an idea – so perhaps we can offer you – a partnership – to the end of teaching – a Malfoy humility?"

It was one of British Wizardry's worst kept secrets that Lucius Malfoy had been one of You-Know-Who's most ardent supporters, and managed to buy his escape from justice. It was Lee's firm opinion that this made the Malfoys responsible for his father's disappearance.

"What'll we do first?" Lee Jordan asked.

**Meanwhile, in the Slytherin girls' dormitories:**

Pansy Parkinson was not a happy girl. Like most of the first years, she wasn't sleeping. Instead, she was coldly planning how to depose Blaise Zabini from the top spot.

Blaise, it had to be said, was a beautiful boy, but at dinner he had _spat_ at her – once at her face, then in her food. Called her a 'filthy mudblood'! Daddy would hear about this, no doubt about it. She decided to ask father to investigate the Zabini family. Everyone had their dirt, and dirt was power. Daddy knew that. Hence his business empire.

Draco, on the other hand... she remembered the lofty, self-assured way he carried himself. She would have to remember that, for as long as she had to endure this castle. The only evidence of the twentieth century she could see was the bathrooms. They still used _candles,_ for God's sake! Why couldn't they put in electricity, some lights, and phone lines? Honestly, if it wasn't for the amazing abilities these people had...

It didn't help that Daddy's efforts to investigate Dumbledore and Hogwarts were utterly fruitless at first. The 'professor' who'd arrived to explain matters had left a number of questions unanswered, finally declaring that she had never been so insulted in her life and simply _vanishing_ before their eyes.

Wellaway, she'd learn all she could about this place, about magic, and about Harry Potter. Magic offered amazing possibilities, ones that could revolutionise the world and make her wealthy and famous.

But first, there was one Blaise Zabini to investigate. And cut down to size.

**At the same time, in the Slytherin boys' dormitories:**

Blaise couldn't _believe_ the nerve of mudbloods these days.

The girl had introduced herself as though she was his equal – _equal? _To a _Zabini?_ - and said something about her father being a... oh, who cared about _mud people? _Seriously? So he was rich and powerful among _mud people_ – was he, scion of the noble _wizarding_ house of Zabini, really supposed to _care _about that?

Mud people were good for feeding Mother, that was all.

It occurred to him that perhaps this Mr Parkinson would make a good... match... for Mother.

But there were two problems: Apparently the mudblood's dam was still alive (a minor issue), and then there was the creature herself. Having to call a mud person 'father', however briefly, was bad enough, but to have one for a _sister...!_

Well then, he would just have to make sure the filthy creature... left... by her own hand or someone else's. (After all, Zabinis were _never_ caught with dirt on their hands.)

This was, incidentally, not the first time a Slytherin had plotted murder at Hogwarts.

**While all that's going on, in Professor Snape's private quarters:**

Snape's thoughts bounced between the exchange he'd seen as the bloody Gryffindors left the Great Hall and what he'd gleaned from his snakes at their table.

Draco had been visibly upset – thankfully his godson hadn't thrown up or anything like that. Those hooligans of Weasleys wouldn't have let him live _that_ down! And it was James fucking Potter –

– _Harry, you idiot._

Snape blinked at the darkness. That wasn't him. The voice had a point though. James was definitely dead, he'd seen the body himself, and that of – of –

He blinked again. Bloody eyes watering again. Best talk to Filch about checking the ventilation in the dungeons.

Thinking of dungeons brought him to worry about Blaise. The hostility he'd read through Legillimency towards that mudblood girl – oh yes, Pansy – was frightening in its venom. And from the shape of things in her mind, Pansy felt likewise.

_My godson, my godson,_ why_ were you sorted into Gryffindor? If you'd gone where you belong you'd have been able to make everyone pull together. Nobody likes the Slytherins because of _Him,_ damnit..._

Then a realisation broke on him.

_Oh God! If Draco does anything in right in Potions, I'll_

_I'll have to_

_have to give_

_give_

points

_to_

_Gryffindor._

A groan, rather like that of a reluctant gearbox, broke the silence of the bedroom.


	12. Chapter 12

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

The Sorting is over, the notices given and the students have gone to their unquiet sleep. Battle-lines are being drawn in Slytherin and in Gryffindor. Now the students break their fast before their first lessons...

**Therefore, in the Great Hall:**

"That's going to make Potions interesting," Draco observed quietly. He had deliberately chosen to sit facing the Slytherin table, and the lessons learned at home, both from tutors and at rather more functions than any child should endure, had borne fruit. The group dynamics were all the more obvious here in the Potions classroom.

The looks being passed between Zabini and – oh yes, Parkinson – would have rivalled the Unforgivables for killing power. Being only eleven, there were more of those than required, and the fact that students were forming little clumps around those two further underlined what was going on. As for his friends Buster and Gargoyle...

Crabbe was sitting close to Blaise, and Goyle was beside Parkinson. That was odd.

"What is?" Oh, right. Weasley.

"It seems that Blaise Zabini and Miss Parkinson there are creating little empires," Draco explained with quiet loftiness. "I'd bet a galleon that Zabini's going to sabotage a cauldron first..."

"They wouldn't, would they?" _Granger_. "I mean, I've seen what can happen, it's all there in Chapter One of _Magical Drafts and Potions,_ just one extra drop or one stir too few and–"

"Are you serious?" Potter was staring at her. "As long as you have the ingredients, you just get the potion you need." He shrugged. "Sure, if some arse was to drop something else in when you're grinding up you might get extra effects, but either you end up with a working potion or you don't."

"Grinding... up?" Longbottom wasn't following. Draco understood, but Harry was already explaining.

"Mortar and pestle. Grind up your ingredients into paste – or if it's involving Dwemer metal or diamonds, you get your apprentices to do it – then add water. It's the basis of all Alchemy. This Potions sounds pretty much the same, doesn't it?"

"Don't let U-Professor Snape hear you say that," Draco replied smoothly, but with enough weight to make his words sink in. Uncle Snape had let slip enough about his dislike for any students not Slytherin to know what would happen if Harry said _that_ in class.

"But why in the name of the Nine is your version of Alchemy so _volatile?_"

To Draco's surprise, the mudblood girl actually paused before opening her mouth. "So – how would you make a potion to cure boils?"

"Boils? A simple disease curative fixes that. Mandrake root and elf cup cap." He shrugged. "Some folk insist on claws from a clannfear, but they're tough to kill..."

She just looked confused. "I've never heard of–"

"–Elf cup cap, I know," Harry's voice singsonged with resignation, "But that's how we do things at home. Why'd you make me leave my gear behind anyway?"

The mudblood opened her mouth, then realised she'd been neatly thrown off track – about those clan fear things, Draco suspected. "Because you're here to learn how _we _do things," Granger explained snippily, "Which you won't with all that glassware."

"No takers on my little wager?" Draco asked.

**Subsequently, in the Potions classroom:**

The sounds behind the door – shuffling feet, clanking of cauldrons – heralded the arrival of the first class. Gryffindor and Slytherin, first year. No point putting it off; besides, a bit more time with his snakes might offer some ideas on how to prevent the House from tearing itself apart. He picked up one of his more impressive looking Potions books, placed the rolls atop it, then threw open the door and strode across the room to his desk, ignoring the suddenly silent students, before deliberately thumping the book down with a most satisfying _boom._

"Any one of you who waves their wand about," he began, "will cost their House twenty points. _Yes,"_ he added with heavy sarcasm, "wands are all well and good, but they are not the be-all and end-all of magic.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he informed the students. "As there is little foolish _wand-waggling _here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."

Carefully he brushed Legillimency over the attentive faces, catching surface thoughts. It was as he feared at the Slytherin tables; Zabini and the Parkinson half-blood's hate for each other were almost visible.

"I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes," he went on scornfully, "the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses..."

The Longbottom boy was one solid mass of neurotic fear. Likely to blow himself up, needed to be watched. Potter was...

_What was that looming behind him?_

He cleared his throat. _Hopefully these brats think I'm carried away with the powers at my command. _"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – _if _you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I _usually _have to teach."

There. The challenge was laid down. Most of the brats would no doubt settle for an Acceptable in order to get away from him, but those who picked up the gauntlet... well, they wouldn't find it easy. Potions were unforgiving and so was he.

The next step was checking the roll; it helped that it gave him an excuse to look more directly into pupils' eyes. Out of habit, the Slytherin roll came first. As he checked, his fears were confirmed. It wasn't even twenty-four hours in, and already battle-lines were drawn – and from what he read in Parkinson's mind, he would need to keep a strong grip on his snakes.

"Zabini, Blaise!"

Inside the boy's mind were dreams and intentions that forced Snape to lash down his face as tightly as a ship heading for a storm. Many involved dire fates for Pansy Parkinson... and her father. _That_ was unacceptable. Dumbledore would have to be informed. _Good luck trying to redeem Zabini, old fool._

With some relief Snape broke eye contact and began the Gryffindor roll. The Granger girl was a virtual recluse, armoured in knowledge but not wisdom. _Well, young lady, you're going to find out you need _both_ here._

Longbottom's mind was even more anxious and neurotic than first observed, so terrified of failing that thought was almost impossible. He'd have to be watched carefully, especially when adding the porcupine quills.

Draco... Snape forced his poker face to hold. How could the boy have agreed to such foolishness? Evidently the Boy-Who-Lived's fame had gone to his head.

"_Potter_... Harry." Lily's eyes below that _bastard's_ hair. He couldn't stop himself. "Our newest _celebrity._" He glowered into those emerald orbs, looking for nothing like what he found.

A mortar and pestle, grinding ingredients; well that made sense, being in Potions class. A Muggle building far too close, and _sideways?_ _Oh, that idiot half-giant, that explains it. _The Granger girl, tinted in hues of aggravation. Another dungeon, very old, faded with age and twisted by terror. And a surprising amount of violence.

Snape scowled and broke eye contact. There was a _lot_ of violence inside _Potter's_ head. Play fights were expected, but battles between bandits and soldiers? A public executions in some town straight out of the Middle Ages? And there were other images – a wolf, an Inferus, huge rats, a man in robes like those of Death Eaters – so vividly etched that they could only be opponents this boy had actually fought for his life. _Where the hell has he been living? You told everybody he was _safe_, you lying bastard!_

"Tell me, _Potter_," his anger seized his tongue, "were I to add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, what would I get?"

Granger's hand shot up, while _Potter_ looked delightfully blank. "Asphodel? Is that like alkanet?"

To his surprise, the boy started to babble. "I know Dad once mixed tinder pop – uh, polypore with wormwood to make an invisibility potion, and –"

"Enough boy!" _What _is_ the brat talking about?_ "Two points from Gryffindor for babbling. Where would I find a bezoar?"

The girl attempted to raise her hand even higher, while _Potter_, damn him, looked even blanker. "I don't know sir."

"Since you _think_ asphodel is like... alkanet, what about monkshood and wolfsbane?"

_Potter _lost his temper. "I've never heard of bloody wolfsbane, _s'wit_!"

"Ten points for insolence!" _You little bastard, you're too much like Lily! _"Not to mention _laziness! _If you had _bothered_ to crack a book open, you would have learned that asphodel and wormwood produce the Draught of Living Death. You would _also_ have learned that a bezoar resides in the stomach of a goat. And that, _unlike_ asphodel and alkanet, monkshood and wolfsbane _are_ the same plant." Snape realised everyone was staring at him and _Potter._ "Well? Why aren't you all writing this down?"

There was a frantic scramble for quills and paper followed by a brief period of scratching, before Snape continued calling the Gryffindor roll.

After the worrisome omens in the Slytherins' minds, and for that matter his godson and _Potter, _the Weasley whelp was almost comic relief. The boy was almost a parody of the perfect Gryffindor, with a bottomless stomach to boot. However, alongside the bogeyman image of the Potions master was _Potter _facing Draco on the train.

_Help me kill this Voldemort._

Part of him wanted to race off to Dumbledore and tell him right away. However, that wouldn't do. First he had to keep these brats from killing themselves or each other. Snape picked up his wand with a sour expression and with a muttered word set the chalk into squealing motion. The flinches and wincing were a petty revenge, but still satisfying.

"A simple cure for boils," he declared, "I _expect_ it done by the end of class." _As though you won't blow yourselves up first. _"No talking. Begin."

**Later that evening, in Dumbledore's office:**

"And that's pretty much how it stands," Snape finished his report, "I've told the prefects to report any actions that they deem serious enough, and also I've arranged with Mr Strigiformis to have any mail Parkinson or Zabini send or receive intercepted. Those two are more dangerous than they appear."

"You spoke to the Owlery Master before me?" Dumbledore rarely frowned in public, but he was here. "Severus, you know what might happen if –"

"If this feud ends up exposing our world?" Snape's hackles rose even further. "I don't think you understand how serious this is. Parkinson's family made their wealth by never underestimating the competition – and they've enough funds and influence to do more than investigate the Zabinis. If they made an overt move against one family, what's likely to happen?"

Snape watched the old man's face with increasing despondency as the old fool failed to understand.

"I'm sure it won't come to that," Dumbledore declared, "From what you told me, they're a bit more subtle than that."

It took effort for him to unclench his jaw. "I will do whatever is necessary to protect _all_ my snakes," he finally said at last, "_and,_ Albus, I _will_ do whatever is necessary to protect our world."

"Speaking of snakes," Dumbledore replied after a pause, "how did young Malfoy fare in class today?"

The potions master thought back. As soon as he had given the command to begin brewing, both Granger and Draco had, to his pleasure, taken it on themselves to educate _Potter_ about Potions – and about good study habits. The disgruntled expression on _Potter's_ face as the two badgered him had made the Potions master's day. Better still, Granger's habit of raising her voice when... excited... had given him the chance to deduct points from Gryffindor.

_Potter_ seemed to have a knack for making Granger excited.

Nevertheless, with their help _Potter_ had managed to turn in a _reasonable_ potion, while Draco had done him proud, and Granger came a close second, followed by Longbottom, of all people. Apparently with the heat going on _Potter,_ he was able to relax a little.

The Slytherin tables, however, had taxed his nerves severely. And this was the first day. The only positive thing that could be said about their first lesson was that they learned why throwing random things into working brews was not a sensible thing to do.

No, wait – Greengrass had apparently decided to sit on the sidelines and follow instructions. Which he approved of, since her diligence gave him plenty of opportunity to award points for Slytherin.

Snape did not, as a rule, deduct points from Slytherin unless he had no choice. "So, if you will excuse me," he began to rise from his chair and his untouched tea, "I am expecting Parkinson and Zabini for detention."

_And closer observation, and more importantly, nipping this feud in the bud._

"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded, "After all, given what happened today, you don't want to risk losing the Inter-House Quidditch Cup do you?"

Snape just snarled and stormed out of the office. He did _not_ need reminding about what that _brat_ had pulled off in his first flying lesson.


	13. Chapter 13

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

Harry Potter got taken to Cyrodiil as a baby by forces unknown, brought up by one of my other protagonists, was found, and is back in Hogwarts taking his classes.

Having met Severus Snape, and taking a cannon to canon, he recently did something no native of Cyrodiil has ever done before.

By the way. I never said it explicitly before, but Ms. Rowling and Bethesda Softworks have nothing to fear from _me_ or this drivel. Call off your lawyers, you fools!

**Revision: **Rewrote Trelawney's cameo to be canon-friendly. Still wasted good ASCII on the drunkard.

**Anyway, the following morning:**

Draco watched the Parkinson and Zabini show over his breakfast. Whatever Snape had done or said to them during their detention had apparently worked, since the two were very ostentatiously _not_ looking at each other. Their respective cliques were less circumspect.

The blonde boy just _knew_ that meant they were plotting. No doubt there'd be an extra pair of owls heading out of Hogwarts today. The Parkinson girl didn't know who she was dealing with. And he said as such to those around him.

"You're betting on Slytherins fighting?" Oh, yes. Weasley. The blood traitor's grasp of the obvious was as lacking as his table manners.

"Well, they are." Draco repressed a sigh as the redheaded moron looked over at the green and silver tables.

"No they ain't." Just as he'd expected.

"They are, Weasley. They're just not doing it openly... yet."

**Meanwhile, on the fourteenth floor of the Parkinson Building:**

Paul Edward Parkinson was something of a mystery to his investors and shareholders. A rather nerve-wracking one, as it happened.

Having portraits of the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo astronauts on the walls of his office didn't help.

The reason for their combined admiration and anxiety was his predilection for what he called 'speculative ventures'; capital-gobbling forays into markets and technologies that, often as not, put swathes of red ink on the books instead of, or too long before, producing healthy returns. There had been talk, time and again, of having the CEO of Parkinson Industries replaced with someone less adventurous, but 'PEP', as he signed himself, was able to nip that in the bud.

Paul Edward Parkinson was not a 'money man'; indeed he used that term as an insult. He saw himself as a technologist, a tinkerer, and an explorer.

_Bankers and accountants aren't the future,_ he had written once, _it's stuff. You can shuffle numbers all over the place, but you need stuff, even just clay tablets and an abacus, to do so. We owe our success to DISCOVERING and MAKING stuff that people WANT and BUY._

Expressing the same sentiments in a stockholder's meeting speech gained him a standing ovation.

Right now, he was leafing through a fat binder that held a number of articles that would have made any investor's faith in him drop sharply. There were several sheets of parchment in plastic sleeves, and clippings from back issues of newspapers called the _Daily Prophet_ and _The Quibbler._ The articles in question, complete in places with the inevitable animated photographs, mostly revolved around politics, especially the edicts of the so-called Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.

A sheet of paper held Mr Parkinson's notes on him and his Ministry. They were not flattering.

There were other notes as well, written recollections and a transcript of the interview with the Professor sent to explain Pansy's ability. Paul's annotations were mostly questions.

A divider indicated where various interviews with staff members began – members who also knew about Diagon Alley and Hogwarts and Minister (hah! More like King) Fudge, or who had relatives who did.

From what he had been able to learn, the so-called 'magical world' was a potential market just begging to be tapped – if obstacles, such as magic's interference with electronic devices, and centuries of isolationism and stagnation, could be overcome. _And_ there were whole realms of medical, chemical and biological marvels to be discovered, before being branded with the Parkinson logo.

Pulling up a yellow legal pad he used for brainstorming, Paul Edward Parkinson closed the binder and began to plot.

He couldn't wait for his daughter's first letter. He hoped his little astronaut was okay.

**Later, just outside the library:**

"I _cannot_ believe I've been _banned_ for a _week!_" Hermione looked, if anything, even more horrified than during her first broom flight.

"Well, you should have kept your voice down," Harry shrugged, "left the arguments for later."

"But _how_ could anyone _not know about the moon landings?_"

"_I_ didn't until a month ago."

"But it's impossible!" Ron looked rebellious. "How could Mugg..." Harry and Hermione were glowering at him in stereo. "Mun...danes fly to the moon? Even with these rockers–"

"Roc_kets_," Hermione groaned. She was beginning to realise that one of the reasons wizards were behind the times was because they were rather... ..._slow_ to accept new ideas.

"And why would they bother anyway?" Draco snorted, "The moon's the moon."

Hermione's face cycled through an interesting sequence of incredulous white and infuriated red while doing a fairly good impersonation of a gaffed fish.

"And that's why the Mundanes got there first," Harry said at last.

Draco, Ron and Neville all stopped dead and started doing gaffed-fish impressions at him.

"Seriously, the Mundanes have made huge strides in their tech... um, technology and sciences. So why is everyone here still faffing about with candles and quills? Why no electricity?"

"Because it's the way things are," Draco echoed his father – minus the inevitable slap or hex.

"They won't stay that way forever," Harry retorted, "Do... um..."

He decided a crash course in modern Tamrielic history wouldn't help.

"...Notice-me-not charms work on cameras? What about someone on an airplane way up in the sky?"

From the others' expressions such questions had never occurred to them. Hermione's was rather different. In a sudden flash of insight, Harry saw a 'joint research project' looming in his future.

"And why do you lot all hide anyway?"

"I thought it was obvious!" Draco found himself sneering at the boy's ignorance. "The Statutes of Secrecy are vital to protecting wizard-kind from the Muggles' persecution and have done so for over three hundred years."

"At what cost though?" Harry wondered aloud.

Befuddlement was the only response he got from the four of them.

History of Magic had been no help at all. The professor, Binns, blithely ignored any questions and lectured on in a soporific drone, repeating what turned out to be the preface to _Hogwarts Through the Centuries,_ exactly as he, Cuthbert Binns, had written it in 1703.

Hermione was rather put out to learn that.

While Divination was only started in the second year, it appeared that Professor Trelawney had 'received a vision' that she would take lunch for once with the rest of the staff in the Great Hall. Harry didn't like her put-on spiritual attitude (sentiments shared by the majority of the staff), nor her histrionics as she proclaimed, pointing dramatically at him, that Death was near.

"Apparently she had a prophecy in Dumbledore's office," Draco drawled as they left for their first lesson of the afternoon, "That's why he keeps her on the staff."

A pair of eloquent snorts were his response.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was, in Harry's eyes, a complete loss. The room reeked of garlic, and Professor Quirrel was so neurotic that he stuttered throughout the lesson, and at one point actually fainted. To make matters worse, Harry felt an unpleasant aching all throughout the lesson, which got worse whenever Quirrel looked in his direction.

It wasn't until he regained consciousness later that night that he realised the ache was located in his scar.


	14. Chapter 14

**For those who came in late:**

It's only Harry's second day, and so far he's finding it strange going. History is literally dead boring, the Potions professor hates his guts, Hermione's mad because they debated the moon landings (which actually happened, no correspondence will be etc. etc. same to you), and he's about to learn that even the plants are strange.

The Archmage of Necromancy is not longer welcome to comment in the reviews, nor at my forums, because he, she, or it, seems to like being Right™ about things. My story. My forum. My rules. If you think you can write a better ES/HP crossover, please do.

Oh yes, and it appears that Paul E. Parkinson is about to embark on one of his infamous 'speculative ventures', but that's not important right now.

**In the Gryffindor Herbology class:**

"Hey! Are you _mad?_" Neville yelled, grabbing Harry's arm and bringing the attention of the entire class onto them, "Don't you know what happens when you unearth a mandrake?"

"Yes, you get a chunk of mandrake root!" Harry snapped back and reached again for the perfectly ordinary, familiar plant. "Mix it up one way – or eat it – and you cure any disease, another –"

"_Twenty points from Gryffindor!_" Pomona Sprout yelled from behind Harry, making him jump, "For risking the lives of everyone in this room, and if Master Longbottom here hadn't stopped you, I'd dock _more_ if I survived! Just be grateful, young man," and she jabbed Harry with a finger, "those are immature specimens, or you might have killed the entire Gryffindor first year!"

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"Mandrakes scream when you pull them up, you fool!" Neville shouted at him, "A full-grown mandrake's cry can _kill!_"

"That's enough!" The plump professor glared at the two, who cringed away at the venom in her eyes. "Potter, you'll be serving detention with me tonight as well. I _think_ a little hands-on demonstration is in order."

Harry didn't fully understand why most of the pure-blooded students shuddered until he came to in the infirmary the following morning. Not even Neville's explanation of how he used baby mandrakes as pest control prepared him.

**In the Hospital Wing that night:**

"I _suppose_," Madame Pomphrey said acidly, "it's a success that he didn't end up here on his very first day."

Pomona harrumphed indignantly. "Do you really think I'd risk a student's life? Seriously Poppy, you should have heard the nonsense he was spouting. According to him, wherever he comes from, mandrakes not only _don't_ scream, but you can eat them and be cured of any diseases you have! Or brew up –"

"_Raw mandrake_ as a curative?" The mediwitch gaped at the Herbology professor, then at the unconscious student on the bed. "I've never heard of such a thing."

There was a sudden jolt and _puff_ of displaced air as a portal opened up two feet in front of the main door. The two witches had never heard (or seen) such a thing either.

"_Where's my son?_" The blue-robed cat that barged through the hole in spacetime, ears back and tail lashing, was also yet another thing that they'd never heard or seen before.

"Your..." was all the response he got, before a small red-gold blur shot out of his collar and arrowed toward Harry's bed.

The Khajiit took a deep breath, obviously getting himself under control. Both Pomphrey and Sprout noticed claws flexing at the cat-man's fingertips, those on the right hand digging into a scrap of parchment. "Arch-Mage Ra'jirra of the Imperial Mage's Guild. Also Harry's dad. Now what's... in the _name_ of the _Nine_... this about a sprout and screaming mandrake?"

"Mister... er... Arch-Mage," Sprout began, "Your son nearly risked the lives of an entire Herbology class when he attempted to extract a mandrake from its pot – without appropriate ear protection."

She was rewarded with an uncomprehending look.

"The only reason you need ear protection when digging up plants is because a bear or something's come along and is trying to chew 'em off."

The plump woman just scowled at him. "I'll have you know I am Professor of Herbology at Hogwarts, sir, so I _do _know what I'm talking about. Just _what _do you call a mandrake anyway?"

Ra'jirra raised his eyebrows, then turned to the portal. "Avogandro! Pass us that mandrake on the cabinet will ya?"

"At once Arch-Mage," and a pair of dark hands extending from light blue sleeves appeared, bearing a familiar looking potted plant. Ra'jirra took it and handed it to Sprout.

"One mandrake, compliments of the Arcane University. Have fun. Now." His brows slammed down again with an audible clang. "Harry?"

A rather confused Herbology professor stuttered her excuses and tottered off with plant in hand, leaving Pomphrey sweating slightly under the non-human's regard.

"Many magical plants can be quite dangerous if not handled properly," Pomphrey explained, "So Professor Sprout takes any horseplay seriously. Especially mandrakes. A mature plant's scream can kill. Apparently, Harry was so intransigent about taking a sample that she felt he needed a demonstration. With a seedling, fortunately."

"_Fortunately?_" Ra'jirra reached out a hand to Harry and his soul to Stendarr. Pomphrey fell silent as the ball of silver light sailed towards, then spread over the unconscious Boy-Who-Lived, flaring slightly around his ears.

"Fortunately, mandrake seedlings can only stun a man." Pomphrey's tone indicated that was a mixed blessing. "So he's just unconscious."

Sprout was still edging warily around the portal when the doors opened and Dumbledore burst in.

"I felt something get through the wards..." he took in the portal, the irate Ra'jirra, the two nervous witches and the unconscious boy. "Arch-Mage?"

"I hope so, otherwise we're all hallucinating," was the Khajiit's sarcastic response. "I was just fed a line about mandrakes screaming when they're unearthed –"

"Oh, that's no 'line'. I found that out when I was a boy, at this very school."

Ra'jirra just stared at him. "So let me get this straight... your mandrakes scream, that scream can kill, and you just stand by and let some... some _hedge witch_ risk _my son's life?_"

Dumbledore didn't miss the way the Khajiit's hand went to his waist as if grasping for a hilt that wasn't there. He remembered the decidedly blunt way that he'd 'tested' McGonnagall's transfigured rat. Pretty obviously the Arch-Mage would happily brain him if he could.

"_Hedge witch?_" Sprout's irate cry broke the tension. "I've never been so _insulted!_"

"Do excuse him," Dumbledore half-turned and called to the plump woman storming away down the hall, "He's just worried for Harry." He turned back to Ra'jirra, eyes twinkling.

Ra'jirra's eyes didn't twinkle. They merely, flatly, calculated the best trajectory to bring claws and jaws into contact with Albus' throat.

"I should take Harry home," he said quietly.

The old wizard paused, trying to figure out how in hell he could soothe the angry mage enough to convince him to keep Harry _here,_ where he was _needed_ and _belonged. _More importantly, where Harry could be civilised and moulded into the hero that the wizarding world needed – a process that only Dumbledore knew how to do.

After all, it was for the greater good.

He just wished that Ra'jirra was an _ordinary_ wizard, one susceptible to his reputation and if needed, his mind charms.

"That wouldn't be wise," the old man replied at last, "After all, he's only been here two days. This was just a freak event, good Arch-Mage, and one that our good medi-witch here knows how to deal with."

The cat-man's mouth was a grim line, but his ears were raised a little. Seemed a good sign.

"Also, it appears he's already made some friends at school," Albus went on, "It wouldn't be fair to them if you pulled Harry out now. He's only just discovered his own heritage, and..."

"He needs to know how you s'wits operate if he's to knock this Voldemort's block off," the Khajiit finished grimly. "Speaking of operation, now's a good time as any to ask you about your plans."

The Greatest Wizard of the Light began to demur, but the Arch-Mage held up a hand. His claws were still slightly extended.

"The Guild has been nearly destroyed because of all the smart farts who decided to sneak off and conduct dangerous experiments in secret," he explained coldly, "Worse still, several of those aforementioned smart farts turned out to be playing around with necromancy – and ended up either working for the King of Worms, or becoming liches, or worse. Damn near ended up trashing Cyrodiil, not to mention the entire world. So I hope you'll understand that I _need _to know what you've got in mind for arming my son there to find and finish off this Voldemort _prick_."

"It is best that as few people as possible know," Albus insisted, "Secrecy is for the greater good."

As soon as he said those words Albus Brian Wulfric Percival Dumbledore realised he had made a mistake.


	15. Chapter 15

**For those who came in late:**

Harry got a little cocky with the mandrakes on his second day, and Professor Sprout taught him an object lesson. Unfortunately his dad found out and he's a little upset.

**For those offering constructive reviews:**

Advice is best served in coherent English. That way I can understand it and ask, "Whose bloody story is this anyway?"

**For those trying to tell me what to write:**

Please stop waving your genitals in my face. Since this work offends you, go read something else.

**For those who work in copyright law:**

I don't own the _Harry Potter_ franchise nor the Elder Scrolls. This is written and shared for fun. Piss off.

**Meanwhile, in the Council Chambers at the Arcane University:**

Albus Dumbledore was not used to being frogmarched.

During his tenure as The Greatest Wizard Of the Light, not to mention Supreme Mugwhump of the International Confederation of Wizardry, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot (Great Britain), and Headmaster of Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft & Wizardry, he had commanded the acclaim and adoration of wizards and witches all over the world. Never mind that until that terrible day when Ariana was killed that he and Grindelwald had been good friends and allies. Or that Voldemort had been vanquished by forces he didn't quite understand.

Dumbledore was very knowledgeable, but like most wizards he wasn't exactly wise. It never occurred to him that being surrounded by yes-men and sycophants tended to erode one's judgment. To be honest, The Greatest Wizard Of the Light was a little too trusting of his fellow man.

Ra'jirra, on the other hand, was radically different. He'd seen more 'wizards gone wrong' than he'd had hot dinners; indeed he had personally killed quite of a few of them into the bargain. And he knew from experience that the average man, given a line about 'for the good of all' or something like that, would happily slaughter their own children or worse.

The phrase "chalk and cheese" came to mind regarding those two.

Albus took a moment to look about the circular chamber he was in. Tapestries on the walls alternated between a stylised eye that he guessed (correctly) to be the symbol of the Mage's Guild, and relatively newer ones depicting scenes he guessed (also correctly) were from the adventures of Ra'jirra as he rose through the ranks.

The portal stood before one of about a dozen thin windows that currently admitted a little starlight, but it was candles and strange luminous stones that illuminated the large battered table to one side. The other side of the room held a trio of display cases and two odd, lightly sparkling platforms on the floor. One had a portrait hanging above it of an elderly man in strange red armour.

"Traven," Ra'jirra said from his seat at the table, "the Arch-Mage before me. If you _don't_ mind?"

Dumbledore took the hint, looked at the plain wooden chair indicated, and without thinking drew his wand and transfigured it into a more comfortable armchair. The extra cushioning was balanced by Ra'jirra's evident disapproval.

"Rright," the Arch-Mage growled, "While Avogandro gives your chair a poke and prod..." Albus blinked at the vaguely African-looking man who had come over and was doing just that with hand and spell, "We've had a complete idiot try to flatten the entire world, 'remove the old order for the good of all' or some such rot." He regarded Dumbledore hard. "We're still rebuilding cities and burying the slaughtered from that, so let's not have any of this 'greater good' bullshit."

The old man swallowed and blinked. It had never occurred to him that other realms might have their own Grindelwalds!

"My apologies if I offended you, Arch-Mage," he finally said, "but I myself for some years was swayed by such a man. Some of his sayings..." he picked his words carefully, "still fall out of my mouth from time to time."

The old Khajiit just frowned and nodded.

"I owe you an apology too... I'm concerned about Harry's safety." He rubbed his face, sweeping a hand over his ear. "When that snake of his popped in here all agitated, I... I feared the worst. Especially after what you explained last time."

Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably. He still had no idea what had gone pear-shaped with his legillimency. The beast-man was still speaking, however.

"...Of course his followers are a concern. So, who's this Voldemort _s'wit _and what's his game?"

The old wizard relaxed a bit. History would help explain to this non-human why things must be done as prophesied. Doubly so with the right interpretation.

"There's three weapons we can use against the enemy," Ra'jirra elaborated, "Where they came from; where they intend going; and where they are. So number one: Where'd he come from?"

"Little Hangleton," Dumbledore said with only the slightest hesitation, "The son of a... mundane... man and a witch. She had seduced Tom Riddle with love potions, but when they wore off he abandoned her." He paused, vowing not to play card against Ra'jirra. "She died in childbirth, and the young Tom was placed in an orphanage."

"So his name's Tom, is it? I can see why he put on a fancy name. 'Dark Lord Tom' isn't exactly regal." A faint smile appeared on the Khajiit's face.

"His full name, as on his birth certificate, was Tom Malvolo Riddle," Dumbledore elaborated, then paused as Ra'jirra looked thoughtful, then got up and walked over to a pair of bookcases. One was full of richly bound volumes Madam Pince would have killed to have in her library. The other contained volumes in a bad state, burned, water-warped and blackened. Ra'jirra carefully pulled one out and brought it back to the table. Dumbledore blinked at the English words still visible on the spine.

The book was apparently the works of Shakespeare.

The Arch-Mage carefully turned the pages over, until he came to the first page of _Twelfth_ _Night_, relatively intact in the middle."You sure it's not Malvolio? 'I'll be revenged on the lot of you', like that?"

"Er..." Dumbledore couldn't stop staring at the book. "He was named after his grandfather, you see."

Ra'jirra blinked at him, then at the volume he was closing. "Souvenir of the Capital Wasteland," he explained unhelpfully, carefully closing the volume before standing up again and putting it away. "Damn good playwright too. D'you mind if I jot something down?"

Avogandro had anticipated his master's wish and pushed a few sheets of paper, a quill and ink bottle towards him. Ra'jirra looked at Dumbledore. "Spell it."

Dumbledore did so, knowing what the Arch-Mage would discover. It pained him to know that most wizards couldn't spot the anagram Tom had come up with –

"Well, I can see where _I am Lord_ comes from, but Voldemort?"

"Bad schoolboy French," Dumbledore smiled, "It should be, um, _vol de la mort,_ 'fly from death'."

The quill fell to the desk as Ra'jirra gaped at him. "This bastard's killed people because he's _scared of death?_"

"He would deny it, if he could."

"So have all the damn corpse-humpers _I've_ offed! They all tried to run away before the end though. Well," he shrugged, "except for that turncoat Caranya, but I was standing on her foot at the time."

A little voice in the back of Dumbledore's mind suggested _this Ra'jirra would make a great Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher._ He promptly gagged it. There was no telling how many casualties might emerge from his classes!

"He refused to accept he was a half-blood wizard," he carefully explained, "in fact, he managed to convince himself that he was not only of pure blood, but the heir of Slytherin himself."

"One of the founders of Hogwarts, right?"

"Yes. He was quite the persuasive young man..." _Like Gellert was._ "He managed to convince a substantial number of pureblood wizards that all the woes of the wizarding world could be laid at the feet of half-bloods and muggleborns – as opposed to inbreeding and backstabbing."

Ra'jirra dropped his head into his hand. "Oh, _wonderful._ So let me check my crystal ball," he waved one hand in an exaggerated gesture, "what can we see, _ah! _He planned to create a brave new world of inbred wand-wagglers and himself in charge!"

"When you describe it like that, it does sound silly, doesn't it?" Dumbledore artfully composed his features into grimness. "Unfortunately, many joined his Death Eaters, and they believed this was possible. They were not aware that they were less than two hundred wizards pitting themselves against not only the rest of the wizarding world, but also the mug- ah, mundanes." He then admitted something not known outside the highest levels of the International Confederation of Wizardry.

"Who incidentally outnumber us at least a hundred thousand to one."

There was silence in the council chamber. Even Avogandro had stopped jotting down his notes.

"Their cruelty made them immensely feared," Dumbledore resumed, "and it was becoming harder and harder to hide their atrocities from the... mundanes. As they were also targeting –"

"_Hold_." Ra'jirra's voice was as warm as Antarctic stone. "_Why _were you hiding? _Why _didn't you call for support from the mundane folks?"

"Firstly, the Statutes of Secrecy," the old man winced as the old Khajiit visibly bristled, "and secondly, how would you react if you discovered that a secret world had been living alongside yours – and was now in the throes of... well... a war?

"Muh... mundanes have always feared and resented us for our magic, for being what we are. If they decided we were a threat... and Tom _was_ a serious threat..."

"You feared discrimination and genocide." Ra'jirra was remembering the Enclave's plans for Project Purity.

"It's happened before. In a place called Germany, to a people called the Jews. Millions were... slaughtered." _And worse. Some of the experiments they did in Nurmengard..._

Ra'jirra gazed at Avogandro. _Sounds like what almost happened to him._

"So your troops were split between cleaning up their messes and trying to stop them in the first place. Meanwhile, _they_ were all unified in waging their idiot crusade."

Dumbledore nodded grimly. "Many families went into hiding, or simply capitulated out of fear."

Ra'jirra rubbed his forehead. "I see where this went. Because your – wait. What do you mean, _it's happened before?_"

Dumbledore took an unhappy breath. "There was... Grindelwald. He went dark and... assisted a madman start World War Two." _And still I called him friend, even as his cats-paw Hitler and he began to switch roles..._

"Hmph." There was a wealth of emotion in that snort. "Anyway, end of history lesson, where's Voldemort now?"

"We don't know," Dumbledore said slowly, "But I am certain that he is seeking a means to be reborn after what happened when he tried to kill Harry."

"Re-_what?_" Ra'jirra was gaping at him with open disbelief. "And do pigs fly in your world as well?"

"I am quite serious, and no, pigs do not fly under their own power! All I can tell you is that when You-Know-Who..."

"I-Don't-Know-Who. You mean Tom?"

"Yes! Yes... Anyway, when, um, Tom cast the Killing Curse against Harry, something caused it to rebound. Much of the house was blown apart, and barely a trace of, er, Tom was found."

_You know,_ Dumbledore thought to himself, _it's a lot easier, more accurate, and more _insulting_ to Tom to refer to him by his birth name. I should encourage that. Sorry Tom, old boy, but you just weren't cut out for your destiny._

"So he could still be alive."

The old man shook his head. "If the Killing Curse could do that much damage, it's highly unlikely. However, I have... eh?"

Ra'jirra was staring into space, and from his expression seeing something unpleasant. "Mannimarco..." he murmured, "the great soul gem... and Galerion..." He snapped out of his reverie and stared wild-eyed at the wizard.

"He's trapped _his own_ soul hasn't he!"

All the Greatest Wizard of the Light could do was gape at the Arch-Mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild in sheer disbelief. How on earth could he have...

"There must be a repository somewhere... maybe in the Iliac Bay... would explain what he said..." Ra'jirra hastily scribbled a note then shook himself. "Anyway. Things work differently, right? He's managed to trap his soul but stay alive?"

Albus swallowed. "Not just once," he finally said reluctantly, unwilling to share his suspicions about the nature of Vol– _Tom's_ – horcruxes. "Knowing him as I do, he would have split his soul into seven... parts."

Ra'jirra paled at the implications of that statement. He remembered with revulsion the gem that had seized Traven's soul – that had been vile enough – but to deliberately tear your _own_ soul apart...!

"So, if his body's destroyed, and his soul can't move on, then... he'll be seeking those containers out again, won't he?"

"Of that I am certain," Dumbledore replied, "And I have set a trap for him and... whatever vessel he possesses now. Such is his desire to claim this bait that he will be unable to resist it."

_Should I tell him what I fear about Harry? About the meaning of that rune on his forehead? Lily, Lily, how could you have paid such a price to save your child? _He asked himself, before deciding. _No. V- Tom will seek rebirth first, _then_ go after the boy. This... man... knows all he needs to know. And I will be damned if I will let him sneer at me and my people again tonight._

"Did you hear what I just said?" The Arch-Mage wasn't sneering, just glaring.

"Sorry," Dumbledore smiled, "This has been a grim conversation, and also it _is_ well beyond this old man's bedtime."

"Mine too, I suppose, but anyway – I said that if you need any assistance, I can authorise a squad of battlemages to pop over and lend a hand." He then went still. "After all, Harry's still a boy, and there's a prophecy to fulfil isn't there?"

Albus stiffened himself, causing the Khajiit to smile grimly. "We'll discuss that some other time. Right now, we both need our beauty sleep. Just one thing before you go."

The smile fell off.

"Harry is my son. He's also an Associate in the Mage's Guild. That makes me doubly responsible for his wellbeing and safety. And I have sworn unto the Nine, at the Temple of the One, that I will do whatever needs to be done to protect him, like Zul gro-Radagash did our Emperor."

"I understand," Dumbledore said at last. _If Harry's in trouble, I can expect a portal to spew out soldiers. How bloody marvellous._ "However, I can assure you that Hogwarts has extremely powerful protections that would swing into action should any student be in peril, and Madame Pomphrey is one of the finest mediwitches in Britain."

Ra'jirra just nodded at that, then blinked. "Well then... oh! I owe you an explanation." He got up stiffly and went to the other bookcase, extracting a plump volume and extending it to the old man. "All about my adventures in the Capital Wasteland. Might find it interesting."

"Indeed?" Albus absently opened the book, stopping at lithographs of a younger Ra'jirra and a young man he didn't recognise. While the script wasn't one he recognised, he was sure that he could find a spell somewhere. "I must reciprocate some time."

"And if you can do us a favour?" Ra'jirra bent and helped the old fart to his feet. "If you learn anything more about Tom's plans, get Harry and his snake to drop us a line. Two heads are better than one."

Dumbledore made insincere affirmations of that statement and once more apologised for distressing the cat-man, before making his escape through the portal to the Hospital Wing. He _really_ needed to do something about that blasted snake of Harry's; after all, he had been refining his plan for over ten years. The _last_ thing he needed was idiots in armour clanking around and stealing his thunder.

Ra'jirra collapsed the portal and pulled a small bottle towards himself. Swigging the contents, he felt his headache recede. This Dumbledore was definitely leaving something important out concerning Harry, and hadn't even _mentioned_ the prophecy vaguely revealed in that telepathy attempt when they'd first met.

There was also something very wrong with a culture that could spawn not one, but _two_ 'dark lords' in a single generation, given that the old fool apparently had tangled with both of them in his lifetime... not to mention this business with the Statutes of Secrecy. Evidently when Tom had gone on his little rampage those laws had got in the way – but still the morons hadn't even thought to review or suspend them for the duration. If they could.

And then... Ra'jirra looked at the armchair, which began to shimmer and revert to its original plain wooden form. The old fart had some cheek, transforming it, or had he even considered what that action looked like? Did people go around transforming other people's property all the time or something?

Thanks to Hermione Granger's assistance, Harry's letters had contained a wealth of information about all sorts of topics about the mundane world, but regarding the magical one, he hadn't written much. And already, two days in, he'd been put in a position of serious danger. The way that Stendarr's mercy had pooled about his ears – the idea of his son being deafened by his teacher –

He looked at Avogandro grimly. "Council meeting first thing after breakfast," he said.


	16. Chapter 16

**For those who came in late:**

Harry's been brought up in Cyrodiil, and several months ago was cooling his heels in Black Plateau Magickal Research Facility waiting for another of those strange letters to arrive. One thing led to another and after round one of butting heads he's at Hogwarts, where it took two days before he got into trouble. Seems mandrake's slightly different here.

Oh, did I mention that I'm writing without a net?

**One discharge from the Hospital Wing later:**

Harry entered the Great Hall and tried to move unobtrusively to the Gryffindor table. No such luck.

"Seems _somebody_ didn't _hear _the bell this morning," Blaise Zabini declared to his clique, loud enough to carry to Harry's ears but not to the teachers' table. Harry's hand pined for his dagger, but he remembered what the healer – what was her name? Oh yes, Madam Pomfrey – had told him. That Dad had not only showed up, but had actually been _disappointed_ in him, actually hurt with almost physical intensity.

Brooding on that, he didn't hear Sallissa insult Zabini. 'Cold egg' and 'tail sucker' are terms not used in polite ophidian society.

Without thinking he gravitated towards where Hermione was sitting next to Neville. From what he'd seen yesterday she was apparently using Neville as a sort of splash guard against Ron. Draco turned his head, coiffed as immaculately as any Altmer, and deliberately shifted to make room beside him.

It wasn't hard. The Malfoys had a reputation, and their power – and old allegiances – were well known.

"Hear that little jibe of Zabini's then?" Draco asked as Harry sat down. Ron frowned, which made food fall out of his mouth. The unfortunate Gryffindors with a view of his place shuddered as he shovelled the half-chewed meal back in without looking.

"Yep," Harry grumbled, scooping a pair of sausages and a lump of scrambled egg onto his plate and passing an apple to Sallissa, who grizzled a bit at apple for breakfast _again_ before tucking in.

"Well then," and Draco smirked at Neville, "I think I just won five sickles."

"You sure?" Neville frowned. "I-I mean normally your h-hearing doesn't come right f-for a full d-day..."

Harry swallowed his mouthful. "Dad found out," he explained, "and came over angry as Oblivion. Healer Pompey–"

"Madam Pomfrey," Hermione corrected automatically. Ron rolled his eyes; of _course _she'd have memorised the names of all the staff.

"Yeah, her – anyway she said Dad cast a healing spell on me while I was unconscious."

"I'm surprised she allowed that," Hermione began in that tone which heralded 'incoming lecture', "given that mediwitches tend to be very protective of their–"

"Knowing Dad, she didn't get a word in." Harry had seen the Arch-Mage on the warpath. In fact, _he_ had been the victim at times. Admittedly he hadn't done anything as bad as attempt to destroy the Mage's Guild or assassinate the Emperor, but there was that time when he'd attempted to help Dad make potions by adding extra ingredients to the mix, blissfully unaware of their toxic properties...

"Who is your father anyway?" Draco asked in an artless tone. Anyone who could end-run around a mediwitch was someone to be reckoned with. "I remember you said he was the Arch-Mage. I take it he's of standing?"

Ron groaned through a mouthful of sausage and rolled his eyes. _Typical blimmin' Malfoy, always greasing up to people._

Harry just stared at Draco as if he had adopted Ron's table manners. "Are you mad? My father's the Arch-Mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild! He directs the teaching and control of mages all across Tamriel, has a seat on the Imperial Council, and he defeated Mannimarco, King of Worms, the most feared corpse-hump– ah, necromancer since the days of Galerion! Of _course_ Dad's important!"

Draco blinked at that. He'd expected, thanks in part to the _Daily Prophet_ regurgitating Dumbledore's baseless reassurances, that Potter would be well cared for. But that he would be under the wing of what sounded like another Dumbledore... he hadn't expected that. This was something that Father needed to know about.

"A s-seat on the, um, Imperial C-council?" Neville asked. "Is that l-like our Wizengamot?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno."

"So w-what about the muggles there?"

Harry's expression grew puzzled. "Anyone can do magic. Just need to be taught to reach into your magicka, that's all."

Draco felt his mind totter. All his life, he'd known that wizards were a minority, hiding away from the barbaric muggles who, he had been taught, would slaughter them all if they ever found out.

A world without muggles? It sounded just like what the Dark Lord wanted!

**All well and good, but let's listen in on the staff table:**

"But it _looks_ like a typical mandrake," Pomona Sprout was explaining more _at _than _to _Snape, "Yet that... um..."

"The Arch-Mage," supplied Dumbledore, who was, at first glance, casually spreading marmalade on his third slice of toast.

"Arch-Mage, thank you – claimed you can eat it raw as a curative – can you believe such a thing?"

"I wouldn't know," the Potions Master sneered, "I would have to run tests on it, assuming what they call mandrake is really mandrake at all." _Which I doubt,_ his tone added.

Dumbledore tuned out the bickering and attempted to focus on the pleasant crunch and tang of his breakfast, but his mind kept fretting about Ra'jirra. He'd said or done something important, but he couldn't figure out _what_.

Snape, for his part, was eyeing Dumbledore warily. Whatever words had been exchanged between him and this Arch-Mage, they'd shaken the old man. Over a decade's close exposure to the Greatest-Wizard-of-the-Light let him see right through the calm façade.

_What did he say, old fool? And more importantly, what are you going to do about it?_


	17. Chapter 17

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

Mind your feet, there's a lot of heavy hints that have been dropped. Don't want to trip over them, do we?

In this and later chapters, what few remnants of canon still exist will make a few pathetic, wet sounds, and then die in a puddle of their own fluids, before being skinned and turned into cupcakes... no wait, that's another fandom.

But more importantly, this chapter is to be more Harry Potter centered.

**Roughly a week after the Mandrake Incident:**

Harry was transferring sausage and egg from plate to stomach, occasionally sipping at his pumpkin juice. The idea of drinking what was basically a sweet pumpkin soup, and _cold_ at that, was still taking a bit of getting used to. Fortunately the flavour could be drowned by more pleasant ones. Such as sausage, eggs, and toasted bread.

That was one thing you could say about the food here in Hogwarts: there was a lot of it, and it was delicious. Admittedly it lacked the kick that Mum's did, but for some reason these people liked their food bland. Rather like hamburgers, now he thought about it.

Wood came over. "Harry," he said, "Just remember there's quidditch practice this arvo after classes."

"I haven't forgotten," Harry grumbled back, "seeing as you've been reminding me for the last two days."

"Well don't forget," Wood said, oblivious to Harry rolling his eyes, "this will be the first time in _years_ that we'll have won the Quidditch House Cup!"

"It's only the first game of the season," Hermione observed reasonably, "There's several more matches to play before the cup's awarded."

Ron gave her almost the same uncomprehending look as Wood was. "Hermione, this is _quidditch_ we're talking about," Ron completely failed to explain.

"_Who cares?"_ Sallissa asked from her rapidly deflating apple, _"It is a chance to fly!"_ This ophidian comment was punctuated by flapping her wings twice before regaining her aplomb.

"I second that," Harry agreed, "Getting a chance to crap on the Slytherins is just a bonus."

Draco chuckled nastily at that. Zabini had been increasingly insulting to him over the past few days, and he was absolutely certain that Zabini was the one who had somehow adulterated his shampoo three days ago. (In this respect, he was wrong; Blaise, in fact, was upset at the Weasley twins for stealing his thunder. Then again, _he_ would have used bubotuber pus and not a potion to turn hair red and gold.)

Wood looked uncomfortable at Harry's demonstration of a talent everyone knew was Dark. "Well... just remember after classes, okay?" And with that he departed for another two hours. Harry was absolutely certain that at least once today Wood would make him late babbling about planned set-piece manoeuvres and how the whole House would absolutely _die_ if blah blah blah. The team captain seemed so obsessed with quidditch that he didn't seem to care about costing Gryffindor house points for tardiness.

"Oh, Ron," Harry addressed the human flobberworm, "I need to ask you something about the Seeker's role."

"Yeah?" Several local Gryffindors turned slightly ill as half his mouthful fell back onto the plate and was immediately scooped back in.

"Right. The game doesn't end until I catch the, um, Golden Snitch, right?"

Ron nodded, looked about to speak, saw Hermione mouthing "swallow!" at him, and did just that. "Nah, if both captains agree, a game can be stopped–"

"But won't happen–" the twins had approached without being noticed – "while Wood's our captain – With him – it's the Snitch – or bust!"

"So the game could go on forever?"

"Nah." Ron speared the sixth sausage of the morning. "You'll probably get the Snitch before nightfall."

"According to _Quidditch Through the Ages,_" Hermione began automatically, "the longest match played to date lasted three weeks in 1823, and the Oceania wizarding community has been trying to set a maximum time of two hours since 1942, but..."

"How'd that work?" Ron was honestly baffled. To win the game, you caught the Snitch, and that was that. No matter how hard to get the Snitch was.

"Well obviously you'd have to rely more on the Chasers and Beaters to score," Hermione had to pause and change gears, "and after all, people have jobs to go to and their own lives to lead. Besides, knowing there's a time limit makes the game more exciting."

Ron and his brothers looked blank. Whether it was the idea of a time limit making for a more exciting game, or the concept that wizards might have better things to do than watch an interminable game, it seemed to elude them. If Wood had been around, it was quite possible that he'd have tried to burn the bushy-haired girl for heresy.

"Oh right!" Harry came to the rescue, "Because nobody wants to be known as the team who couldn't find the Snitch in time!"

"Which is why Oceania's rules won't be used," Ron declared, "the game stops when the Snitch is caught, what's so hard about that?"

Just then the bell rang and the argument came to a halt.

**Later, in Transfiguration class:**

"I'm still not sure how this differs from the Conjuration I know," Harry groused. The first week of Transfiguration had started dramatically, with a demonstration of Professor McGonnagal's Animagus ability, which she followed up by turning her desk into a rather startled pig and back again. Harry was rather more impressed with the former than the latter.

Professor McGonnagal was less impressed with his assumption about the safety of transfigured pork.

The rest of the week had bogged down in what seemed to be endless boring theory about what could and shouldn't be done with the art, but all that was over. Today, the students were finally getting the chance to transfigure for themselves. Namely, the matchstick-to-needle exercise.

It was proving harder than it looked. While shape-wise, they were similar, McGonnagal had explained at length that their inner structures were radically different, not to mention their atomic composition. Despite this, the similarity of shape was intended to make the task easier for the students.

As a result, both Hermione and Harry were struggling thanks to prior knowledge. Hermione was stymied by the energies that _must_ be involved in transforming matter at the atomic, if not just molecular level, and worried that botching it would release enough energy to level the castle. Harry, on the other hand, was more used to the notion of binding lesser daedra (sight unseen) into the form required – quite different.

"Differs?" Both Hermione and Harry jumped; neither had noticed McGonnagal approaching. "What do you mean by that?" The professor's eyebrow was raised somewhat sceptically.

"Well," Harry admitted, "Dad, I mean the Arch-Mage, taught me how to conjure a Bound Dagger, like this."

Dropping his wand and frowning in concentration, Harry spiked his arm upward as if grabbing for something. The class stared as a yellowish bubble of light grew around his empty – _empty!_ – hand before shrivelling into it, coagulating into a solid shape.

It _was_ a dagger, that much was obvious, but there was something undeniably repellent about it. The rough metal varied from a dark black to a vivid red at the edges, as if the blade had already been used so often that blood had impregnated the very metal. As well as the main blade, a smaller spike protruded from the end of the handle. The whole thing seemed not so much forged as _cast _from dark malice and red cruelty.

Needless to say, the whole class was agape, as was Professor McGonnagal. "Harry James Potter," she began slowly, "are you honestly telling me that your father taught you how to conjure a _weapon_ out of thin air?"

"Umm..." Harry puzzled, then shook his head. "No, out of Oblivion?"

"Explain." The woman's face was a mask of forced neutrality, torn between, among other things, professional curiosity as to just _what_ Harry had just done; incredulity at the fact an eleven year old boy had done so not just wandlessly, but _wordlessly _as well; pride in the fact that James' son was following in his father's footsteps; and horror at the fact the boy had conjured up a weapon that, by the way he held it, he knew how to use.

"Well... um... it's called a Bound Dagger?" His voice trailed upward with uncertainty as he tried to remember. "Because you... um... bind a lesser daedra into the shape of a dagger. From Oblivion I mean. And if you're really good you can summon armour... or an axe!"

Harry trailed off again, uncomfortable from all the stares directed at him and the thinning line of McGonnagall's lips as she extended her hand.

"I think it best I take that," she said firmly. Curiosity had won out over everything else, aided by rules prohibiting students carrying weapons. (With typical wizard illogic, the fact that students could and did use magic as a weapon didn't register.)

"All right," Harry gripped the flat of the blade and presented the hilt to her, "but it only lasts for a quarter of an hour before it returns to Oblivion."

The professor didn't catch the inflection even on the third mention. "I believe you all have matchsticks to transfigure," she observed in a loaded tone, causing students to suddenly find their classwork absolutely fascinating, as she returned to her desk and began casting some analysis spells on the dagger.

"I didn't know you could do wandless magic," Hermione said in a somewhat snippy tone. She didn't like being ignorant, and the fact that Harry had been hiding this from her rankled.

"Dad told me not to show off," he replied, then glared at his toothpick. With curt wand motions and a rather threatening tone, he managed to make it turn slightly pointed and the colour of pewter.

"That's better than before," Ron observed. "Better than mine anyway," and he indicated a matchstick the colour of worn pewter.

"Try it without the rude words," Draco grinned behind him.

"Up yours Malfoy," Ron growled.

"What's a dee-dra anyway?" Hermione asked Harry had mentioned them once or twice, only ever in passing, and something to do with an invasion not long ago, but hadn't gone into much detail.

Harry was about to answer when McGonnagal's cry of surprise distracted everyone.

"I – I think th-_that's_ one," Neville indicated the somewhat upset creature on the desk.

All the diagnostic spell was supposed to do was reveal the original shape of a transfigured object or being. After all, Harry had claimed it was a daedra – whatever that was – which had made McGonnagal _very_ curious.

However, it was a spell of Earth, not Nirn, and thus designed to work as described on _Earth _transfigurings, _not_ those of Tamriel.

Said Tamrielic spell involved not only transfiguration, but the summoning of a creature from one of sixteen alternate planes of existence, sight unseen.

All of which explained why a four-foot humanoid, almost like a diabolical version of a house elf, replaced the dagger on McGonnagal's desk, blinked in confusion for two seconds, then attempted to claw the professor's face off.

"_SCAMP!"_

The daedra in question spun to face the shouter, who was obscured by an approaching fireball. Needless to say the scamp didn't appreciate that much. Its whinnying screech of rage was almost drowned out by those of the frightened student body, who were mostly interested in running through the door, whether it was open or not.

Notable exceptions to the panic included Harry, who was vaulting over his desk towards the creature while pulling his dagger from his belt. It was the silver one he'd been gifted on his tenth birthday.

There was also a gobsmacked Hermione, torn between her instinct to flee, her desire to observe what Harry was up to, and annoyance that, despite all the decent clothing her family had got for him, today he'd dressed like a medieval peasant under his robes _again_.

Ron was understandably trying to pull her towards the door. Draco and Neville were hiding behind desks, for the very good reason that the escape route was blocked by a crush of students.

And then there was Minerva McGonnagal, who was still in a state of shock and staring at the scamp. It took her a little while to realise that it was now bounding towards not just the panicked students, but Harry Potter, who'd drawn another dagger from under his robes and evidently intended to kill it.

Then a gold and red blur battened onto the daedra's face, causing it to screech again. The scamp howled as the angry reptile's venom burned into its muzzle, distracting it long enough for Harry to ram his dagger into its belly up to his wrist, under the ribs, angled upwards for the heart.

Ra'jirra and J'dargo would have been proud.

The scamp's death gargle was cut off in a belch of black ichor and pus-coloured light, leaving Harry dropping to one knee to catch his balance as his quarry disappeared. Sallissa flapped frantically to avoid falling to the floor.

"_HARRY POTTER!"_

The boy in question blinked up at the pale face of his Head of House, then down at the stained dagger in his hand. It took him a few heartbeats to realise he was definitely in trouble.


	18. Chapter 18

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

Harry's back on Earth, and a week in has caused chaos in Transfiguration class when he conjured a bound dagger. Apparently in some cases Mister Tamrielic Magic and Mrs Earth Spell don't play well with each other.

Harry & Co. Ltd. are of course the spawn of one J. K. Rowling, and The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion is the creation of Bethesda Softworks, and this hideous teleporter accident of a story is the ejecta of yours truly.

However, life goes on, in Tamriel as on Earth. Fasten your seatbelts! This is a long one.

**Visiting Hours, the previous Tirdas, Imperial City Prison, Cyrodiil:**

The battered figure lay very still on his half-rotten and bloodstained straw bed as he heard voices coming closer. After five weeks of Imperial jug he knew damn well that to move or react in any way meant getting what little shit he had left knocked out of him. The damned Empire was not kind to captured necromancers.

Harnir had joined the Order of the Putrid Hand for the simple and, he now realised, thoroughly idiotic reason of power. Harnir had been poor when he lived in Valenwood, and had fared no better when he crossed the border into Cyrodiil; so when he came across some energetic fellows who were looking for assistance in what they called 'recruiting', he was quick to accept the title of thrall.

For a few somewhat noisome years, life had been good. He'd helped set up an important cell not far from Cropsford, 'resurrecting' a number of helping hands, and had then been hand picked to assist in setting up cells in the Imperial City itself.

It was sheer bad luck that the night he found an accessible tomb for 'recruiting' there were grave robbers in it. The resulting disagreement was noisy, and the result – given that city guardmen, like walls, had ears – was fairly inevitable. On the other hand, the thieves were arrested too, along with a fellow Bosmer who was guilty of fencing stolen goods.

They got off lightly. The merchant was kicked out of the Imperial City and barred from doing business there if he ever returned. The thieves, and their fence, were beheaded. Lucky bastards.

But _he_ had made the mistake of wearing his Order's robes that night. So he discovered that the Imperial Legion were just _dying_ (ha ha) to have nice long chats with him about topics such as respect for the dead, just what the Order of the Putrid Hand were up to these days, who else could help them with their enquiries, and how his ongoing assistance would delay a future tryst between himself, a stake, and a large fire.

But five weeks was a long time to 'assist' the Legion, and he knew with dead certainty that his knowledge was tapped dry. He also knew that something was broken inside his belly, along with the ribs, the teeth, and his leg. Right now the stake sounded less like a terrible fate and more like a release.

"This him?" A new voice, some furlicker, pretty old.

"That's the bastard," one of the guards replied. "We've been asking him about his friends, and they've been brought in for questioning too."

A sound scrabbled along the ceiling, full of pain. Harnir ignored it, tried to keep still, pretend he was asleep. All he wanted was to be left alone to either die, or be taken to the stake.

His cell door opened. This was it, he hoped, the furlicker was probably a priest sent to shrive his soul before he was roasted. Rough hands grabbed his hair and yanked him upright. This caused his body to protest with a cry of pain.

"You sods got a little carried away didn't you?" The annoyed voice was followed by a soothing silver surge that finally allowed him to open swollen eyes and see an age-streaked muzzle framed by a deep blue hood, emblazoned with a familiar symbol.

Harnir would have widened his eyes at the sight of the Arch-Mage if he could.

"Right then, laddie," Ra'jirra declared with his trademark lack of formality, "We're going to trade favours. I'll save you from this hellhole and a fiery death, and you do a little research for me. How's that sound?"

The Bosmer just gaped at the Arch-Mage uncomprehendingly.

"You might like to try 'yes please', 'I'll do it' or 'when do I start'," the old Khajiit suggested, "otherwise..."

"Wh..." Harnir finally managed to cough out, then retched. Ra'jirra stepped back as gobbets of blood landed on the floor. The jailers took offence to that and were about to take fists to the prisoner when Ra'jirra stopped them.

"I'd rather _not_ have him burping blood when speaking to me, damn it," and he glowered at them both. "I need this one _alive_ and _able to speak,_ got it?"

They got it. The growing swirl of nasty-looking magicka in one hand was a wonderful teaching aid.

"What do you want me to do?" Harnir's voice was weak, and trailed off into coughing, but he knew a chance when he saw it. No doubt he'd be swapping one prison for another, but _anything_ – even slaving for Galerion's damned guild – was better than here.

"You'll be unearthing some of Mannimarco's secrets," he watched the elf's eyes attempt to widen, "and that's all I'll say here," the Arch-Mage shrugged, "Once you're healed up I'll tell you more. Before I take you away though, _understand_ this."

The fur was white, but the eyes were still amber and sharp. The voice was pretty unyielding too.

"If you try to run away, or blab to anyone outside of your... study group... you'll be _roast_." One eyebrow quirked in rhetorical enquiry. "Get it?"

Harnir swallowed reflexively. "I... understand," he finally said slowly.

"Good." Ra'jirra turned to the jailers. "I've got a carriage outside. Shackle him and bring him along. And try not to injure him any further. It's a long way and the road's not all that good."

**Four days later, en route to Black Plateau Magickal Research Facility:**

The Great Serpent always brought Sallissa close to the Arch-Mage, but this place wasn't familiar to her. Beating her wings and bitterly begrudging the uncomfortable roll of parchment she bore, the little ruby diamondback held altitude and looked around.

Mail delivery felt to her like riding a wind that wasn't really there. And that not-wind was urging her eastward, down into the trees, away from the great white tower with its nice warm fires. What was the old cat with the nice warm robes up to?

Sallissa struck east, matching the not-wind but staying above it. All sorts of creatures liked to hide in trees and eat snakes – such as the huge spiders she'd discovered in the forest at the big cold castle where Harry was. If they were here as well she didn't want to find out.

After a few hours the trees thinned out, revealing a carriage crawling along a dirt road; the not-wind pulled her straight down. Folding her wings, she dived for it, and the nice warm old cat. Hopefully there would be a juicy pear as well.

**Subsequently, at ground level:**

"What the Hisst!" was the Argonian driver's understandable response to a small flying serpent dropping out of the sky in front of the Arch-Mage.

"Hello Sallissa," Ra'jirra addressed himself to the creature in question, "Got a message for me?"

The gold and red snake hissed in what almost sounded like an affirmative. Sure enough, someone had tied a small scroll to the animal's belly, below her wings.

"Arch-Mage, what..."

"Letter from Harry. This is his familiar, Sallissa," the old Khajiit grunted by way of explanation, snapping the string with two extended claws. "There we go... now up my sleeve with you before you catch your death, eh?"

The Argonian goggled as the snake folded its wings and slithered obediently into the Arch-Mage's robes. It could understand speech? But mother had told him snakes had no ears...

"We going over the edge then?"

The slightly edged inquiry jolted the driver back to his job, and with much tugging on reins disaster was narrowly averted. The road to Black Plateau was not just treacherous, but kept that way for two reasons. One was to discourage the curious. The other was that not spending septims on maintaining it actually saved a lot of money.

A growl attracted the Argonian's attention again.

"That ssoundss ominouss."

"They want a meeting as soon as possible. What do they want _this _time?"

**Hogwarts, three days after the scamp incident:**

"Sorry I'm late," Ra'jirra grunted with no real sign of remorse, "But like I told Harry to tell you, I was on the road at the time."

He looked around with interest at the Headmaster's office. Portraits of headmasters past festooned the walls. A desk almost groaned under the weight of parchments (hadn't these idiots _heard_ of paper?) and on one wall a set of shelves held objects that puffed, twanged, spun, pinged and did other inexplicable things. The inevitable fireplace also took up a wall, with a small pot on the mantel.

"At least our message found you," Dumbledore nodded understandingly, "I think you understand that... ah... there was an incident in Transfiguration class a few days ago, and also Harry was found carrying a weapon..."

"All your students carry weapons. They're called wands."

"R... Arch-Mage," McGonnagall responded, "There are rules in place here forbidding the bearing of weapons such as daggers! It's bad enough that he was able to transfigure that... creature into one, but –"

"Hold on! What creature? Start from the beginning please." Ra'jirra already had a sneaking suspicion what the woman was on about, but he wanted to hear it from her viewpoint.

"Maybe it's best if I get the pensieve out," Dumbledore interjected, "Snape, would you...?"

The dour man, who reminded Ra'jirra of descriptions of the mythical Dark Brotherhood recruiter, stood up, and helped Dumbledore lift a heavy stone basin carved with runes onto the desk, squashing several oh-so-important documents under it. Dumbledore opened a drawer and removed a small vial.

"What's all this then?" was the Arch-Mage's reasonable inquiry.

"Minerva, would you...?" Dumbledore handed the vial to McGonnagall, who raised her wand to her forehead, frowning in concentration. To Ra'jirra's astonishment, a silvery line like spider silk drew out of her brow as she pulled the wand away, finally contracting into something that looked like a giant dewdrop. She carefully forced the drop of whatever it was into the vial and shook it free, before rising and depositing it into the pensieve. The silver swelled to fill the bowl almost to the brim.

"This is a way we can share memories," Dumbledore explained to the bemused Khajiit, "Just put your hand in and join us." The headmaster did just that, along with Snape, their eyes becoming unseeing. Rather doubtfully, Ra'jirra did so too.

Quarter of an hour later, the trio were expelled from the memory. "Nine preserve me!" Ra'jirra tottered, and Snape took the opportunity to carefully brush across his mind as he helped him back into the chair.

_Good strike one-two shock would've been better that spell she used has combat possibilities! - _a vision of a man first holding a mace, then with his hand up some sort of lizard thing – _if you want to stay alive mister piss off now_

Snape wisely retreated. Ra'jirra glowered at him meaningfully.

"So," he turned to McGonnagall, "you more or less got Harry to demonstrate Conjuration for the whole class, then you cast some sort of spell that turned the dagger into a scamp, or _back_ into a scamp."

"I can assure you that wasn't –"

"So Harry probably saved everyone's bacon, and I'm proud he remembers his lessons by the way – and you punish him with detentions?"

"So that creature was a scamp?" Snape asked, his curiosity overcoming his irritation. _That creature's almost as annoying as _Potter_ was!_

"Yep, one stunted scamp actually, fresh from Oblivion, and evidently bound into the shape of a dagger at first," Ra'jirra's voice softened with thought. "I'd like that spell if you don't mind. It'd be interesting to see if there's a relationship between the type of bound item and the daedra involved, and it might be useful in combat – you know, one moment you've conjured a bound sword and the next there's a clannfear or daedroth chewing your arm off. The Empire can... what?"

"Do your kind summon those things all the time?" Dumbledore sounded shocked.

"And we're talking about transfiguring a living thing sight unseen," McGonnagall added in an agitated tone, "that's NEWT level magic at least! And from a different realm of existence? This Conjuration is sounding more like one of the Dark Arts!"

"Peace," Ra'jirra intoned, raising a hand, "Conjuration's more or less fallen out of favour these days because it has links to some unsavoury packs of bastards, the Mythic Dawn in particular. Also you need plenty of smarts and lots of will to do the more useful bindings or summonings. I mean, I learned from Volanaro..." a sad look crossed his face, "how to summon a dremora lord near forty years ago, but I've only been able to get a handle on it in the last ten years or so. We keep an eye on conjurers, obviously. Most are inducted into the Legion." He shrugged.

"Arch-Mage," Snape spoke, "Why would a boy of eleven years need to know how to fight? How to wield a weapon when he has magic? Tell me," and Snape glared directly into Ra'jirra's eyes, "_what the hell happened when he was nine years old?_"

"You've been reading my son's mind!" Ra'jirra jerked upright, sending his chair on its back, tail lashing, his hand alternately freezing, then burning, then crackling with lightning. "It's bad enough –"

"_YOU'VE BEEN WHAT?"_ McGonnagall's irate shriek was enough to jerk all the portraits awake and cut Ra'jirra off mid-curse. "_SEVERUS SEPTIMUS SNAPE! Ye have nae right tae..._"

If Snape could have apparated, he would have before McGonnagall completed tearing strips off him. Unfortunately, Hogwarts' defence wards prevented him from doing so, and reaching for the Floo powder would undoubtedly cause Gryffindor's Head of House to use hexes for punctuation.

The result was that an elderly Kahjiit watched bemused as a Gryffindor ripped into a Slytherin, metaphorically speaking, as the Headmaster more or less danced around trying to halt the festivities, also metaphorically speaking.

"Minerva!"

Snape's ears stopped burning at long last, and he observed with relief that the non-human's hand was absent of spells. Humiliating as being dressed down in public was, it was far better than being hit with whatever it – he – had been about to fire.

"Minerva," Dumbledore repeated carefully, "I know you're concerned, but believe me Severus knows what he is allowed to do –"

"Oh, he's allowed tae rummage aboot in the bairns' heids noo?"

Ra'jirra blinked at this. _Quite the accent on her when she's angry!_

"– And his efforts have already prevented several injuries and maybe even deaths."

"An' wee Harry lookin' so much like James dinna come intae it?" McGonnagall wasn't convinced.

Ra'jirra looked at Snape and raised an eyebrow. "Who's James when he's at home?"

Snape blinked, completely at a loss. He blinked again. McGonnagall was also raising an eyebrow. Blink. Dumbledore was looking at him with his patented sad face.

"James Potter was Harry's father," Dumbledore filled in the silence at last, "He –"

"Doesn't matter," the Khajiit declared, "I don't know what he did to you," he added, looking at Snape, "but Harry's Harry and this James bloke's dead as mutton." His brows furrowed. "Grow up."

Snape just stared at the glowering Ra'jirra, completely at a loss.

"Anyway, you want to know why Harry's running around with that dagger, so I'll explain. First off, when he was eight, a wolf tried to have him for lunch while he was picking mushrooms."

He'd been expecting the gasps of shock.

"Good thing I'd taught him Flare, so he was able to make enough light and sound to attract help. He also had a go with his belt knife, but that thing's not much chop, obviously, so I had a bit of a think and decided to ask Alix to break out the training tools." He chuckled. "Harry wanted to go straight to broadswords, but we put our foot down, and pointed out he couldn't _lift_ a full bloody blade yet anyway..."

Ra'jirra chuckled. "Just like J'Dargo when he was that age."

"But how could a wolf get that close to civilisation?" Snape was feeling his head spin a bit.

"Faregyl's on the Green Road where it cuts through the east edge of the Great Forest, so you get a few visits from the wildlife," Ra'jirra shrugged. "So anyway once Harry was competent enough, I gave him a second-hand iron dagger for the next time he went harvesting and all was well until the bloody corpse-humpers attacked."

"_WHAT?_" was the wizards' quite understandable response.

"The Order of the Putrid Hand," the old Khajiit scowled, "a pack of necromancers we'd been keeping an eye on, along with the occasional boot. When I bowled the King of Worms, that pretty much wrecked the Order of the Black Worm, but the survivors went and joined up with the Putrid Hand mob. Apparently they'd been gathering forces at Pothole Cavern south of Faregyl, not that we paid much attention, since they seemed to be keeping to themselves, and more to the point, keeping the bandits down.

"Then it comes time for Tales and Tallows, and I end up stuck in the Imperial City, and that's when the bastards launched their assault. Big pack of corpse-humpers and undead.

"Well, Alix is an old crusader, and S'jirra and Abhuki know a few nasty tricks, _and_ we had a squad of legionnaires posted, so things weren't all bad. Quite a few folk there are survivors of Kvatch or fought at Bruma or the Imperial City, so that's more sword-arms and spells too.

"Oh yeah. En route a few of them ticked off a spriggan or two, so their numbers were a little thinner by the time they showed up.

"Anyway, S'jirra wisely got all the children and elders down in the inn cellar, and there's little Harry with his dagger ready to fight! Well, S'jirra said no, stay there and defend the cellar if the bastards get that far, but guess what happened."

"The foolish brat went looking for a fight?"

Dumbledore winced and McGonnagall looked like she wanted to slap Snape.

"Exactly," Ra'jirra nodded, "While the adults were attending to some of the more hysterical children, Harry gets his dagger, sneaks out of the cellar, opens the door and charges straight into one of the bastards!

"Well, the stupid sod is a classic villain and a prize idiot so he apparently picks up Harry for a bit of a gloat – I reckon there's a handbook somewhere that tells bad bastards to have a gloat before the job's finished – and that gives Harry a good look at where his..." Ra'jirra's voice went flat, "where Abhuki had fallen.

"And that's when Harry stabbed him in the belly, and while the sod was distracted by that, Harry stabs him in the eye, and I guess he pulled his head back because of that, because Harry cut his throat."

All three stared at him thunderstruck. "C-cut his throat," McGonnagall managed to get out.

"Did a pretty good job for a boy," Ra'jirra shrugged, "given that he _pushed_ the dagger instead of _pulling_ it like you're s'posed to, and by that time the guy's screams had attracted a bit of attention, so Harry wasn't in any real danger, except from S'jirra and me."

"How could a nine year old boy reach a man's throat?" Snape looked sceptical.

"Apparently he was doubled over at the time," Ra'jirra shrugged. "Getting a few inches of iron in your guts does that to you, and being a corpse-humper he was just wearing robes.

"Where was I? Oh yeah, Harry was dragged back to the cellar, more than a bit shocked, and S'jirra was spitting tacks. I'd got the news by this time and was already riding hard but it still took a good few hours and the Bravil guard got there first.

"So when I did get there the first thing I see is my wife waiting for me and this corpse outside the tavern door, she's yelling something about how Harry killed the guy and he's in the cellar. Since there were still a few of the bastards and their summonses running around I had a bit of a go at them first then went inside to check on Harry."

Ra'jirra frowned at a spot on the floor. "I'll be honest, at the time I didn't know if I was gonna praise him or tan his arse for disobedience."

There was a brief silence which was finally broken by Dumbledore. "So what did you do?"

"Well, I got the Council to redouble their efforts to find and put down necromancy for a start. Having the Champion and his wife on my side helped. Especially with that one wanker who decided that agreeing was better than being filleted... or did you mean Harry?"

Dumbledore's expression suggested that he had indeed meant Harry.

"Well, actually he was punished enough with the nightmares he had afterwards, but I also took his dagger away, gave him a little lecture about being obedient to your parents, and confined him to the house for a fortnight. Only let him out for Abhuki's funeral, doing the necessary, or any other chores."

Ra'jirra's face was bleak. "Also I wasn't letting him run around outside until I was absolutely certain the last of those bastards received _justice_."

The word's delivery was like a sword unsheathed, making it clear what he meant.

"They were all killed?" Dumbledore was aghast. "You offered them no mercy? No chance of redemption?"

The leonine head that turned to him was less Ra'jirra's than the Arch-Mage's. "Necromancy is a crime under Imperial Law, and a blasphemy against the Nine Divines, for it involves the desecration of the dead. I'm _sure _you understand."

His tone made it clear that Imperial legislation was not up for debate.

"Getting back to Harry," and he softened a bit, "Once I saw he'd absorbed his lessons, things went back to normal, and before he left for here, I got him that silver dagger. Just in case."

"I suppose it protects against magic," Snape scowled.

"Nah, Harry couldn't maintain an enchanted one. But silver's grand against undead and werewolves, and I think a few daedra are allergic to it as well. Also, if his magicka runs dry, he's got something to fall back on, like I told these two before."

"Be that as it may, his bearing a weapon is against school rules," McGonnagall declared. "He also had a smaller knife, which I understand, ah, Miss Granger has been training him not to use at the table..."

"Nothing wrong with a belt knife, useful tool that."

"No doubt you expect us to waive the rules for the boy," Snape sneered.

"Don't be an idiot! I'll... where's a quill?"

Snape was pressed into action to remove the pensieve from the desk, and quickly Ra'jirra was supplied with quill and parchment. He scribbled a note to Harry, summoned a small flare to dry the ink, then rolled it up and handed it to McGonnagall. "Instructions to him about his dagger. Basically, if he's caught wearing it outside of formal events, or if he uses it on other students, it stays confiscated until the end of term. Reasonable?"

McGonnagall frowned but saw nothing objectionable about that. Snape also nodded slowly, but he was thinking about the spell that had caused all this in the first place. _The brat doesn't _need_ a physical weapon, not if he can pull them out of thin air. I had best speak to my snakes, the last thing I need is Zabini or that Parkinson girl sending _Potter_ on a rampage..._

"An entirely sensible instruction," Dumbledore agreed, "And a most informative evening this has been. I'm very happy we could sort this out amicably."

"Well, now that's all out of the way," Ra'jirra rubbed his chin, "While I'm here, there's something else I'd like to discuss with you, Headmaster...?"


	19. Chapter 19

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

It was McGonagall's fault! She made Harry conjure up a bound dagger and turned it back into a scamp and caused his dad to have to make a quick trip to the Potterverse and explain about how he'd nearly got himself killed when the necromancers attacked Faregyl!

Anyway, we all know who owns what, so call off the attack lawyers. Better still, put them down, unless you're the estate of Edgar Rice Burroughs, in which case consume faeces and expire.

My apologies for the long delay. This chapter has been very hard to write for some reason.

**Anyway, in the Headmaster's office, Hogwarts Castle:**

Snape and McGonnagall had finally left, and Ra'jirra got up and wandered over to the window, looking out into the night. Dumbledore recognised the signs that the old Khajiit was gathering courage to speak and waited patiently.

"Harry thinks he'll learn your magic, then bowl this Voldemort twerp, then go home," he said quietly, then leaned on the windowsill.

"Hopefully he'll realise that this _is _home."

Dumbledore blinked rapidly, startled at the statement and the defeated tone it was delivered in. The portraits that hadn't fallen asleep again circulated through their frames, muttering amongst themselves.

"When I was following Haines in the Capital Wasteland," he went on sombrely, "I nearly got killed by a grenade. Afterwards I swore an oath to the Nine that when I _do_ kick the bucket, it'll be on Tamriel's good soil under the light of Magnus. With any luck there'll be enough of me left to dig a grave for...

"But Harry was brought to us for a reason, and you were allowed to contact him again for a reason. I'm not quite sure what the reasons are, but then I'm not a priest."

Dumbledore winced. The holder of what he saw as the three most important positions of power in the wizarding world didn't like the idea of being pushed around by forces beyond his control.

"When Emperor Martin... sacrificed himself to save Tamriel..." Ra'jirra's voice went hollow, his mind filling again with red skies, the war cries of rampaging daedra, and the death agonies not only of warriors but of the massacred.

"He was the last of the Imperial Family. The Septim line..." he pressed his brow against the window pane, trying to collect himself. "How can an Empire last without an Emperor?"

Dumbledore's eyes widened. "You fear war is coming?"

The old Khajiit just nodded.

"At the last council meeting there was talk about making Chancellor Ocato potentate. Probably next year at the earliest. And that'll be the the last nail in the Empire's coffin," Ra'jirra told the window, "The Argonians have already withdrawn from the Council to fight their own Daedric invaders, Morrowind's falling apart, and then there's that Altmer syndicate of racist wankers the Thalmor..."

The Arch-Mage turned to face the Supreme Mugwhump, Chief Warlock and Headmaster. "Which is why we're turning that whajamacallit, 'Shrieking Shack', into a library. So Harry has access to our lore when... if... the axe falls."

"I'd been wondering about that," Dumbledore felt himself relax. His agents had noted the teal-robed aliens shifting numerous crates and shelves into almost every room in what was considered 'the most haunted house in Britain'. _Better not tell Madam Pince about this. She might die from excitement._

Ra'jirra smiled. "Glad you understand. 'Power that he knows not' might well be something we take for granted, eh?"

Dumbledore winced. All his plans for Harry revolved around that phrase, and he had been absolutely certain that he knew what it was.

_And you're wrong and you know it now._

The old man blinked at the alien voice in his head. Hogwarts rarely spoke to him directly, normally directing him where he needed to go by emotion. For her to speak to him like this...

"You would not consider exile?" Dumbledore asked tentatively. It was a silly idea, but he felt at the least he should make the offer.

"No," Ra'jirra said quietly. "My loyalty is to the Empire and Nirn is my home. And my family is there." He continued to look out the window. "And this is Harry's world. Not mine."

The two men fell silent, the Khajiit brooding over his no doubt imminent death in battle (or assassination, like as not), Dumbledore over the implications of what had been said.

"So while we're wallowing in doom and gloom," Ra'jirra went on, shaking himself, "What's the state of the world anyway?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he seized the opportunity to paint himself, and by extension his own world, in a positive light. He completely forgot about the confession he'd been about to make.

**More or less the same time, approaching the Trophy Room:**

"I'm not going to _kill_ him, Potter!" Draco almost yelled, but then remembered where they were and settled for a strangled hiss.

"Well that's how we do it back home," Harry shrugged dismissively, "If someone was to challenge Dad, the Arena would be packed and the silly bugger'd be resting in pieces." He looked at one of the suits of armour. "Are you _sure_ you don't want a weapon?"

"This is a _wizard's_ duel!" Draco was scandalised. "Zabini won't be stooping to that, and neither will I!"

"Fight's a fight," Harry shrugged again, getting an elbow in the ribs from Hermione. The bushy-haired witch had been shocked by the sheer brazenness of their rule-breaking, and more so by realising that, in her eagerness to prove them wrong, she'd followed them out of the common room – and the Fat Lady was away visiting.

Ron had decided to tag along (officially, for moral support; unofficially, to see Malfoy get knocked on his arse). In leaving, they'd literally fallen over Neville, who had forgotten the password _again._ All of which meant the Gryffindor contingent was hard pressed to stay concealed from Filch, his cat Mrs Norris, or any of the nocturnal ghosts for that matter.

Privately, Harry worried about Neville. His efforts at magic were best described as desperate at best and futile at worst. In Potions, if Snape wasn't sniping at Harry, he was terrorising Neville into near catatonia. The only real class he revelled in was Herbology, even when the plant life was trying to pull his face off.

Publicly, he worried about his reputation. Having his dagger confiscated was bad enough, but his belt knife had been taken as well, the ungrateful McGonnagall yammering at length about dangerous weapons. And then there were the whispers, not to mention Zabini and his claque making snide comments about devil worship. Whatever devils were. Maybe they were the local form of daedra?

"Bloody hell!"

The quintet froze and peered ahead. Draco stared as Crabbe emerged from the alcove he'd been hiding in. "Buster?"

"Yeh 'sme. It's a trap mate, Zabini ain't comin', but y'know everyone 'eard 'is challenge..."

"Come along dear," a distant and thoroughly unwelcome adult voice crooned, "let's find the little rule-breakers..."

"Filch," everyone groaned as quietly as possible.

"I'll get him for this," Draco gasped as all five Gryffindors fled – as quietly as possible, which wasn't very – down, up, and in some cases around hallways, but unable to get much further ahead of the sadistic caretaker. "Broke his word – disgrace to – his family! When my – father –"

"Shut up and run!" Harry snapped at him as they raced onto a staircase, which, unaware of its cargo, started to move. The five held on as the stairs shifted to a new destination, before resuming their flight.

A flight which was halted almost immediately by a malicious titter up ahead.

"What's this?" the disembodied voice of Peeves leered from up ahead, "five ickle firsties up past their bedtime?"

Harry swore. "Shut up ghost!" he snapped, instinctively launching a Tamrielic spell towards where the poltergeist seemed to be.

Peeves flickered into astonished existence, letting the wordless spell of silence rocket past him. "Can't have that either, naughty boy!" For a shade, he possessed extraordinary lung power. "_STUDENTS OUT OF BED! FIVE CHILDREN IN THE THIRD FLOOR CORRIDOR!_"

The Gryffindor quintet spun around, but Filch's gleeful ravings froze them to the spot. Between the bellowing spirit and the famously sadistic caretaker, there was...

Harry didn't think. He jabbed his arm out again, this time sending a ball of flame into the poltergeist. Peeves, expecting the spell to simply pass through him, and also taking too much pleasure in getting living people in trouble, didn't bother to move.

Filch stopped dead as a flare of fire up ahead was accompanied by something he never expected to hear.

Peeves screaming in pain.

Mrs Norris clawed at his leg; Filch looked down at her, meaning that the terrified poltergeist, still trailing flame, missed setting his head alight by a matter of inches. By the time the caretaker recovered from his shock and turned from gaping after Peeves, the students had apparently disappeared.

"I think they've gone," Draco said from where he had an ear to the door. Hermione had managed to pop the lock with a textbook _alohamora_ while their pursuers were distracted.

"T-t-t-t," Neville stuttered for a good ten seconds.

"What?" Ron was looking at him.

"T-t-t-t-t-w-w-w-w-g-g-g," Neville managed to get out.

A trio of animal growls from the direction Neville was staring in seconded his sentiments.

Now a trio of animal growls can mean one of two things: Either that at least one animal has growled three times, or at least three animals growled once each. The large canine shape in the room, however, offered a third option: that one animal growled three times, once for each head. Heads that were very large, adorned with teeth to match, and quite clearly unhappy at being woken up.

"Run for the common room," Draco suggested.

"That's... not a bad idea," Ron agreed with a sour expression. He didn't like Draco, but he had to admit that right about now the snakey git made very good sense.

Moving slowly, the children carefully slid out through the door, then slammed it behind them and bolted.

**A few minutes later in the third floor corridor:**

Ra'jirra was surprised by two things at the moment. The first was that he and Dumbledore had been jawing for so damn long. Not that he needed his bed, in his adventures he'd often spent days without sleep, but there was so much to cover from Dumbledore's point of view that naturally it _had_ taken a while.

The other was that the old man had quite the legs on him to be able to move so fast in those robes.

And a third was that Dumbledore was currently talking to a ghost whose clothing, accessorised with lengths of chain, was slathered in silvery stains, like blood. "It apparently happened here," the spectre said, "but Peeves won't say who it was. He's just cowering in the second floor broom cupboard whimpering for some 'him' to keep away."

"Who's Peeves when he's at home?" the Arch-Mage interrupted.

"The resident poltergeist," Dumbledore twinkled at him, "The Baron DuFerenczy here has some influence over him."

"It was one of the first years, I'm sure of it!" The two mages turned to see Filch, who paused when he saw Ra'jirra's countenance. "I was chasing down some students who were out after curfew, like I was told, then there was a flash and next thing I know, Peeves went right over my head, on fire!"

Ra'jirra frowned. "What do you mean, 'like you were told'?"

"Ah – I was told by Professor Snape that one of his students told him there would be a student or two out of bed, in the Trophy Hall, duelling. Which is against the rules. They shouldn't have prohibited the good old punishments if you ask me! Hang 'em by their heels, or thumbscrews, like the good... old..."

Ra'jirra's ears were laid back and he was growling. "You're talking about torture, you _s'wit,_" he spat. Despite being a derogatory Dunmeris term, it was one that had taken root in modern Khajiiti, mainly because it lent itself to being spat with extreme prejudice.

"Torturing _children_," he added, still glaring at the caretaker. "Where I come from, that means a one-way trip to the block. _If_ the public let you survive that far."

Dumbledore looked at the angry Arch-Mage, then to a startled Filch, then at the flexing claws on Ra'jirra's hands. "Filch wouldn't dare do so of course," he said quickly, trying to head off what he saw as imminent violence. "We have progressed since then, you know."

Filch nodded frantically, unable to look away from Ra'jirra's oddly luminescent eyes, or his frighteningly still stance. He wasn't aware that Mrs Norris was also watching the Arch-Mage with an equal amount of terror, roughly ten feet away. While both were feline in nature, Mrs Norris recognised an alpha male when she saw one, and this tom, while for some reason standing on his hindlegs and wearing human clothes, was so decidedly _alpha_ it was terrifying.

"You might like to remind this cretin of that," Ra'jirra growled, "Especially given that Harry is a representative of the Empire as well as an Associate of the Mage's Guild." He paused to let that sink in. "Not to mention _my_ son. So be a good chap," he turned back to Filch, "and _don't_ let me find out you've been indulging your..." he paused to select one of his less colourful phrases, "s_ick..._ appetites."

While Ra'jirra was making it abundantly clear that Filch, if he attempted to bring back the good old days, was likely to have a nasty diplomatic incident as next of kin, Dumbledore checked a certain door. Someone had used the standard unlocking charm, as he'd expected. A quiet locking charm later, and the student body was safe from meeting the cerberus within.

The Arch-Mage didn't need to know what lay beyond the door. Only he, Flamel, and presumably Tom knew. For the moment anyway.


	20. Chapter 20

**For those who came in late:**

Ra'jirra's unloaded some concerns on Dumbledore, who thinks they're manna from heaven. While that's going on, Harry's been seconding Draco for a duel that turned out to be a trap, and five Gryffindors nearly got caught. Then things went interesting. Next episode, fathers.

**Anyway, the following morning:**

"The question isn't what that Cerberus is doing in the castle," Hermione was scowling at her full English breakfast, "it's 'what is it guarding?'"

"Ker-what?" Harry blinked at her. "Is that what it's called?"

"Yes!" Hermione glowered at him. "In Greek mythology, Cerberus was the guardian of the Underworld, preventing the dead from returning, and it was a three-headed dog. One of the twelve tasks of Hercules was to –"

"Yeah yeah yeah," Harry waved his hand irritably. As it was still holding his fork, his fellow diners leaned out of range. "But all I saw was too many teeth. Didn't see anything to guard!"

"You didn't notice it was sitting on a trapdoor?"

Harry hadn't. Neither had Neville, Draco, or Ron, causing the girl to huff in annoyance. "Honestly! I'd almost think you didn't care about what a creature like that is doing in a castle full of children, behind a door without a decent lock!"

"All I s-saw were three sets of t-teeth," Neville admitted for all of them.

"Speaking of locks," Harry blinked, "What was that spell you used? Don't think anyone's covered that in class. Reminds me of Dad's unlocking spell, though he prefers lockpicks."

"I've been reading ahead," Hermione preened, "It's in chapter seven."

"Maybe I should do that," Harry mused, "Dad hasn't taught me any unlocking spells."

"Why bother?" Ron managed to empty his mouth enough to ask a little grumpily. "They'll teach us it later on, why learn it now?"

Hermione looked about to blast Ron for his blasphemy (verbally), but Harry raised a hand, fork-free this time.

"Peace!" he said, "we're all a little short of sleep and irritable. Let's all just get on with our classes today and –"

A small owl zeroed in on Harry with a scrap of parchment in its claws. Harry groaned as he scanned it. "Bloody Hagrid wants me to take tea with him this afternoon. And his awful rock cakes I bet." _And his blathering on about my birth father,_ he added silently. For some reason the half-giant seemed to think it very important that Harry not only know about James Potter, but look up to him as a role model. He'd asked about his birth mother, Lily, but Hagrid didn't have much to say. Not to mention the idiot's hero worship of the headmaster...

"Hagrid's all right," Ron objected, "he's a good bloke, 'specially with animals. I remember Dad telling me..."

Harry tuned Ron out, mainly because it wasn't just Ron talking, but his breakfast as well. Over the past few days, he'd learned that Ron had appalling table manners due to the equally appalling magical prank testing protocols of his twin bothers. He also looked up to Dumbledore, and anyone associated with him, as though the old man was some sort of gift from the gods. And as for anybody in Slytherin... it was like Dunmer and Argonians.

Draco had expected to enter that house, in fact he'd said on the train he was looking forward to it, but that hat had changed everything. According to various scandalised housemates, Draco's father had been one of Voldemort's backers...

...and that was something else. Harry couldn't mention the prick he was supposed to be training to defeat without everyone shitting themselves, sometimes literally. Dumbledore hadn't so much as lifted a finger to provide any pointers or advice. And as for Quirrell, the less said, the better. He got more benefit from reading in the library than classes, and less headaches!

Anyway, something would have to be done about the pranking that was being done on Draco. So far the boy's hair had changed colour about twelve times, then his tongue had been transformed into a snake's, and that was nothing compared to what seemed to get snuck into his clothing from time to time. Harry suspected the Weasleys, but at the same time they _did_ have alibis for some occasions. So who was their accomplice?

And you couldn't be mad at people who ten days back had caused all the Slytherins to become extraordinary combinations of silver and green spots and stripes.

Draco himself was seeing House Slytherin from the outside, the first Malfoy to do so in several generations. And what he was seeing wasn't pretty. Being eleven, he wasn't aware that centuries of prejudice had turned into self-fulfilling prophecy. All he knew was that his old friends had turned their backs on him the very first day. When he had written to his father, the response was... he didn't know what to think. There was something patently false about Father's words of support, but he couldn't identify it.

Despite the two factions inside it, Slytherin still presented a unified front of stand-offish... what was the word... oh, they all acted better than anyone else. Even _him!_ A Malfoy! But apparently that meant nothing to them now, the spawn of lesser families, many of whom owed his own not inconsiderable favours. It made his blood boil with frustration sometimes.

**Later that afternoon, at Hagrid's hut:**

Harry plodded down to the wooden hut somewhat unwillingly. It wasn't like Hagrid was a bad person, but the huge man just... he just seemed _stupid._ This was only the third time he'd been invited to tea with the groundskeeper, and already he had a good idea of what would happen.

First, of course, was the arrival of Fang, the incredibly large and equally incredibly slobbery boarhound. No matter how hard Harry braced himself, the dog still knocked him down and proceeded to lick his face all over. The first time this had happened, the boy had suffered an unpleasant flashback to the wolf attack when he was eight. Hagrid hadn't understood until Harry's temper nearly set him on fire.

Second was the trek, Fang permitting, to knock on Hagrid's door. This started the small greeting ceremony, in which Hagrid would call out, "Comin'!", open the door, then cry, "'Arry! Good of yer to come! Come in, come in! Fang, stop that!"

Fang didn't unless Hagrid got a grip on his collar, usually accompanied by gushing excuses about how he was still a puppy inside.

Thirdly was invariably an offer of tea, which Harry accepted, since it was much like a weaker form of khave, and rock cakes, which Harry now declined for the good of his teeth. Finally the torture started.

"Jus' think, it'll be Halloween in jus' over a month," Hagrid began, "Or Samhain, as _some_ families still call it."

"What _is_ this Halloween thing anyway?" Harry had learned a little of Earth's traditions, but they were still a little confusing to him.

"Oh, ye'll love it! There'll be a special feast that night, an' just you wait until ye see my jack-o-lanterns, I got some good pumpkins growin' for 'em, an'..." the half-giant's brain caught up with his mouth. "It's also... um... also th' anniversary o' when ye defeated You-Know-Who," he added lamely.

"Wasn't me," Harry growled irritably, "I was a baby damn it." _I have a date now. Halloween. But they forget about my family. _"What about my... my parents? Weren't they wizards?"

"Well, yeh..." Hagrid floundered a bit, caught between the emotion that swept over him every time he thought about Godric's Hollow, and the obvious irritation on little Harry's face. "But Dumbledore said it was ye who defeated... um, 'im... an' Dumbledore's the greatest Wizard o' the Light, so he'd know wouldn't he?"

He beamed at Harry, secure in his logic. Oddly, Harry didn't seem convinced.

"But I was a baby," he objected, "if anyone did anything..." An idea came to him. "What actually _happened_ on that night? I've heard Sheogorath's versions of events, but not what _really_ happened."

"Who's She-goreth?"

"Prince of Madness," Harry shrugged, "Crazy as a skooma-head, like his followers."

Hagrid just blinked. "Oh. Well... um, we know You-Know-Who smashed the front door open, an' your dad... he tried to hold him off while your ma took you upstairs. An'... well, he chased them up an' apparently your ma... tried to protect you but he killed her as well... then he tried to kill you."

"With a spell?" This was what was getting Harry frustrated. There were so many outright lies about what had happened then, and from other students' earnest questions, even _worse_ ones about his subsequent life, that he wanted to scream.

"Well, he was fond o' the Killin' Curse, since it goes through any shield, an' he used it on your dad, then your ma, an' he must've used it on you."

Harry may have been eleven going on twelve, but he _had_ been involved in combat, and his stepfather had also given him pointers on how to spot danger before it bit you. "So my mother, Lily, did something to me."

"Dunno," Hagrid shrugged, "When You-Know-Who cast at you, it caused a huge explosion an' blew up the house. But Dumbledore says..."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. _Dumbledore says. It always comes down to Dumbledore's say-so with this idiot. Or how wonderful my father was. But my mother might as well not exist!_

He stood up abruptly, unable to stand it any longer. "Why in the name of the Nine won't you tell me about my... mother?"

Hagrid blinked. "Well... I..." Slowly it occurred to him that Harry wasn't so much curious about her as upset.

"And don't tell me I have her eyes, I _know_ that. You've mentioned it several times already."

Hagrid blinked some more and floundered a bit, still rather bewildered. Boys followed their dads, girls their mums, that was the way of things. Although truth be tol', Harry's temper seemed to be more like his mum...

"Ollivander said... he said her wand was good for Charms. Was she good at them?"

If Hagrid had sighed with relief any heavier the boy would have been knocked over in the breeze. "Was she what! When James started tryin' to court 'er, he was pretty cocksure of 'himself, until Lily..." He described an entertaining situation involving James Potter, some heavily diluted bubotuber pus, and a pair of underpants that wouldn't come off for a good half hour.

Harry filed that inspirational piece away for potential future use, sat down again and asked for more such stories.

"Seems Lily," he explained to his friends over dinner, "could make common household charms into weapons. Imagine that! Never mind aiming a curse, just throw the entire cutlery drawer at someone. Or spray soap in their eyes. Great."

"But that's not what they're for," Hermione objected. For all her vaunted intellect, she seemed to do more memorising than thinking, and was still highly fixated on rules. In her mind, housekeeping spells were for housekeeping, and defensive spells were for defense, and never the twain shall meet.

"Exactly," Harry objected, "Nobody'd expect that. Like that Flare I've been teaching Neville. That's used by the Legionnaires to signal, or light fires, but it also works a treat against rats or distracting bigger threats."

"You've been teaching Neville?" Hermione was gobsmacked. "But what about me? What's it like? Whammmph!"

Harry had put his hand over her mouth. "Remember what your dad said?"

It took her about thirty seconds to remember, despite having it told to her about one hundred and fourteen times over the course of her life.

She finally did subside, but her expression resembled a boiler about to explode.

"The reason I'm showing Neville how," he explained, "is because his Dad's wand doesn't like him."

"His _what?_" was Hermione's and Ron's understandable, and Draco's surprised, response.

Neville drew it out. Compared to their own it was clearly older, bearing the ingrained stains of a much larger hand. Its oak wood also showed signs of many scrapes and knocks, something to do with being struck, dropped, flung against walls and all the other outrages auror work inflicts on your wand.

"How come your Dad isn't using it?" Ron immediately asked, then regretted it when both Draco and Harry looked at him with alarming identical levels of contempt.

"His parents were tortured into insanity," Harry said at last.

"And Grandmother insisted. She said it would do him honour for his son to take up his wand," Neville said quietly.

The rest of the night was under a definite pall.


	21. Chapter 21

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

Hermione's smelling a rat regarding the cerberus. Harry's smelling a rat regarding his mother. Indeed, the whole world is filled the smell of genus _Rattus_. Where's the air freshener?

**Anyway, a few days later, CEO's office, Parkinson Building:**

Paul E. Parkinson couldn't sleep. The letters from his daughter, the subscription to the Daily Prophet, among other wizarding papers, and the latest report from his most recent research team... they made him nervous.

According to the sallow, snooty, almost stereotypically dark Professor Snape, Hogwarts was the premier wizarding school of Britain, not to mention Europe. This turned out to be a half-truth. Hogwarts _was _the premier wizarding school of Britain, for the simple reason that it was the _only_ wizarding school in the country. One school dictated how the entire future of British wizardry would be taught and exposed to magic and its accompanying culture. Worse still, it was a near-complete immersion system, the children virtually cut off from their parents. Especially 'muggleborns' like his little astronaut.

Who was currently enrolled in a school rated _second_ best in Europe; his little astronaut would have been better off in France's Beauxbatons academy. Globally, Hogwarts ranked _sixth_ in the entire International Confederation. Apparently Japan led the world in magical educational excellence (_no surprises there, _Paul thought to himself), followed by the USA's Salem Institute and the relatively new Minnesota Institute of Thaumaturgy, which had already bumped Australia's Toolonga Academy down to fourth.

The only school rated worse than Hogwarts was Durmstrang in Bavaria; the report simply noted that Arabian and Indian wizards were entirely home tutored, Chinese ones refused to divulge any information, and the Africans were too busy trying to kill each other to have a _government_, let alone a formal educational system. It was _that_ which made Paul worried.

"It's what they call Muggle Studies, that's the big kicker these days," one of the team had explained, "Most European and British wizards stand out like sore thumbs because they're not taught anything about the real world, it's not compulsory, except in Beauxbatons. There's a whole line of jokes about it. To be honest, if it wasn't for your support of night courses and all, I wouldn't have got in the door here."

Paul wrote three lines on one of his whiteboards, underneath a portrait of Mike Collins.

_Hogwarts only school in Britain. 2__nd__ Europe. 6__th__ worldwide._

_Students not taught about mugg – _he struck out the word – _non-magical life and culture except optional course. Mandatory in US, Japan, France & Aus. though._

_Total immersion environment w/ limited contact w/home. No formal lessons in magical culture._

Then he remembered something, back when that disagreeable Snape had turned up. To say he'd been unimpressed by Parkinson's obvious technological and financial power... that wasn't right...

_Wizards therefore don't understand us and are frightened?_

_Hiding – from satellites?_

Paul leaned back on his desk and started nibbling the end of the whiteboard marker. Then he dropped it as several revelations fell into place, creating a simultaneously frightening and potentially profitable vision of the future.

**The Informal Dining Room, Malfoy Manor:**

Lucius Malfoy was not tasting his lunch. This pleased the house elves. If he was, invariably something wouldn't be just right, and then someone – usually Dobby – would have to punish themselves.

Instead, Lucius was mulling over the latest letters from Draco. Apparently he'd been set up by Zabini, but the younger Crabbe had remembered where the family loyalties lay. Lucius nodded absently; he'd have a word with Crabbe Sr. and ensure the boy was rewarded properly. After that, they'd nearly been cornered by Filch, and had only escaped by hiding in a room on the third floor corridor. Which turned out to have a _cerberus_ in it.

What the hell was a beast like that doing _inside_ the school? It could have made a meal of Draco – or any student talented and curious enough to traipse up to the third floor and get the door open! Was Dumbledore keeping it for some sort of test, maybe for NEWT level Care of Magical Creatures?

Lucius Malfoy didn't like the old fool any more than Dumbledore liked him. The old man had too much power, and kept too much knowledge to himself. Also, he held a grudge; but then lying about being under one of the Unforgivables _and_ bribing himself out of Azkaban was probably grounds. Absently he rubbed his left arm where the mark still throbbed occasionally.

He'd had _very_ good reasons to resort to perjury and so forth. The main reason had been born eleven years ago, and had captured Lucius' heart and soul with his first cry. A son needed his father, not stories about some insane scarecrow rotting away in Azkaban, and who knew what would have happened if... he shuddered at the thought of _Dumbledore_ arranging a remarriage for his wife, no doubt to one of the old man's cronies in order to 'redeem' his family.

No, he'd get no answer from Dumbledore.

He went back to reviewing Draco's missives. According to the boy, thanks to that mudblood girl, quite a few of them were taking advice from his son about wizarding customs. Rather like the news that Draco had been sorted into Gryffindor, Lucius didn't know whether to laugh or cry. His son! An ambassador for the ancient and proud traditions of wizardry! At least they were learning from the scion of an Ancient and Noble House, rather than whatever biased notions Dumbledore might come up with. Which apparently involved not actually _teaching_ anything about wizarding culture at all. That was something to bring up... again... at the next meeting of the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Muggleborns _needed_ to know their rightful place in the world.

But at least his son had made friends with the Boy-Who-Lived... unfortunately that was, for him, one of those 'should I laugh or cry' situations. Apparently Potter _had_ been raised in a magical environment, _but_ not as a wizard. According to Snape, Potter's stepfather was a non-human who was also... what was it? Oh yes, Arch-Mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild of Tamriel. And was _very_ protective of his stepson. Not to mention that he was somehow able to completely bypass anti-Apparation and anti-Portkey wards. _And_ he could sense Legillimency. And, more importantly, he wasn't awed by Dumbledore. Which made him...

He dragged his thoughts back to Potter. "The boy has his mother's temper," Snape had said once, and apparently he wasn't one to run from a fight. Already he'd caused chaos, especially that business in Transfiguration. Yet he didn't see himself as a wizard, he referred to himself as an 'Associate' of this Mage's Guild, here to learn and eventually kill the Dark Lord. He spoke the Dark Lord's name without fear; didn't he know about the curse laid upon it? Worse still, he'd effectively drawn his own son into assisting him in this 'mission', as he referred to it! While he didn't really care about the Weasley brat, nor the mudblood, the welfare of Draco, and to a lesser extent Longbottom, worried him. For all that the boy was a near-squib, he was still the heir apparent to another Ancient and Noble House. It wouldn't do to have him or Draco side against the Dark Lord, if he returned...

_If?_ Lucius asked himself. _When did I start thinking 'if' instead of 'when'?_

And that was something else. Apparently the Longbottom boy was learning whatever form of wandless magic Potter used, and was doing better with it than with his wand. That was an advantage the Dark Lord would kill for.

The boy had power, and was associated with power, and that power was _not_ in the sway of Dumbledore. No, Lucius Malfoy did not trust Dumbledore, but over the long years as Draco had grown up, as he had sat on meetings of the Wizengamot and the Hogwarts Board, he had begun to question his faith in the vision of the Dark Lord. But his circle of acquaintances were not the sort of people he could share his concerns with. But this Arch-Mage, on the other hand...

Lucius Malfoy rose from the table and headed to his study. He had a letter to write, a meeting to arrange.

**Somewhere between Bruma and Cheydinhal, Southern Jerral Range:**

"Kynareth bless you," one of the guards responded.

Ra'jirra just sniffed, rubbed his nose, and watched the scenery slide past him. The carriage rattled and clanked abominably, but that was understandable. Originally the thing had been intended for hauling cargos and the seats and windows were a hasty retrofit for passengers. The purpose-built ones would be better insulated and more comfortable.

Neither he, nor the other VIPs, were complaining. In front of them, the culmination of about ten years of trial, error, and frequent explosions of superheated steam and shrapnel chuffed rhythmically, pulling them up and across Gnoll Mountain Pass as they headed eastward, away from the sheds and tanks that had sprouted just beyond Dragonclaw Rock, as well as the crowd of gawkers, honour guards and those dignitaries who weren't making the trip marking the Grand Opening of the first railroad in Tamriel since the time of the Dwemer.

The dignitaries all moved to the right-hand side of the carriage as the train chugged over the pass and began downwards, turning eastward. The cloud cover, Ra'jirra thought, with the sun punching through in places, actually made the vista of Lake Rumare and the Imperial City exceptionally beautiful. But soon it would give way to snow again as the track wound northward for the descent to the northern gate of Cheydinhal.

"I wish Ernie could've seen this," the old Khajiit murmured to himself. Moira Brown, Mad Scientist of Megaton, would have wanted to see this herself too, but her agoraphobia wouldn't let her. Nevertheless she'd extracted the basic diagrams from her copy of the Arlington library archives for them, and the results, at last, were bearing fruit. Behind him, a pair of military flunkies were discussing how the use of rail could speed up troop movements over land. In front, another pair of lords were chewing over what this might mean for coal and bloodstock futures. Not that it mattered. The biggest problem had been making parts capable of handling the intense heat and pressures without seizing or coming apart. They'd known _what_ to make; it was a question of _how._

_Rather like Harry, _he thought to himself. The boy had a task to perform in this other Earth and no idea how to do it or get there. Which meant he was dependent on that Dumbledore smoothskin telling him what he needed to know. But from his recent letter home, the old wizard wasn't holding his end up well.

"Sorry?" Ra'jirra blinked at the earnest fellow who'd accosted him.

"I was just asking, what are these posts here?" As if on cue, another example of the wooden uprights in question swept past the left side windows.

"They're holding up the signal wires," he explained shortly. "That way the stations can let each other know when a train's on the way." The Arlington archives had also divulged the concept of the Leyden Jar, and it was an enchanted form of those primitive batteries, in alliance with a modified children's toy, that let the two ends communicate in ragged paradiddles. He didn't bother to mention that the engineer also had his own jars, 'Daedroth Jaws' and wire to connect to the main line and join the staccato conversation if necessary.

Wisdom shared, Ra'jirra sank back into his thoughts. Harry would have liked this, but he was at school – apparently a school divided, especially between the Gryffindors (who were apparently supposed to be all good guys) and Slytherins (who were almost all assumed to be evil). And between those who were brought up wizard and those like... oh yeah, Hermione – who came from the mundane world. Didn't the stupid sods think compulsory cultural studies were a good idea?

Speaking of cultures, Harry had written about his tea parties with the big fellow, Hagrid. Apparently the lunk kept blowing on about his birth father, who was a 'pure blood', but wouldn't say much about his birth mum. But the Arch-Mage would bet every last septim he had on Lily Potter doing something to protect Harry before taking the secret to her grave. Which was a sentiment seemingly not shared by wizards – those in Britain anyway.

Instead, Dumbledore had, as far as he could tell, proclaimed that whatever spell Voldemort had used somehow got reflected back on him with almost a hundred per cent efficiency. The wizarding world had then come to the conclusion that a year-old baby had deliberately done that himself! Ra'jirra scowled out the window at the passing rubble of an Oblivion gate, deep in thought. The lads setting up what he called the Hogsmeade Branch had arranged for deliveries of the Daily Prophet – a rag that, in his opinion, the Black Horse Courier left in the shade. At least you could read _that_ without the pictures gaping at you, and the reporting wasn't almost entirely opinion.

That was it. Dumbledore was, in his own mind, a humble teacher propelled into greatness, but if he'd been _really _humble, he'd have turned down what, if Ra'jirra had it right, were control of British Wizardry and indeed control of the entire wizarding world! Instead, the old man dictated what almost all of wizardry could and couldn't do or discuss, as well as dictating what the inmates of Hogwarts would and would not learn. Including Harry. And if Harry was telling the truth, the current crop of students were learning virtually nothing about history or combat, to say nothing of –

"Huh?" Jerked out of his thoughts, he blinked irritably at the Breton who'd just asked him something.

"Do you want to join the betting pool?"

"What betting pool?"

"The one on how many words Lord Rugdumph will muck up in his speech."

"Speech?" The old Khajiit blinked. "Don't tell me the Count's letting _him_ welcome us!"

"Well, he is," the courtier explained anyway, "after all, the railway line runs right past his estate."

Ra'jirra mulled that over, then dug for his money pouch. "What's the betting so far?"

**At lunch, Hogwarts:**

Dervas Oren entered the Great Hall, paused for a moment, then headed for the hand waving at him. Harry Potter stood up from his lunch, turned and bowed in the traditional greeting of the Mage's Guild. "What would you?" he asked.

"Something from the Ministry of Magic delivered a letter, Associate," the Dunmer explained, "Have you ever read Silus Venturio's _Explorations of Sheogorad_?"

"Yes?"

"Well, imagine a grummite in a pink woollen, ah, jacket. That's what she looked like. Had much the same personality too, so I played village idiot."

Harry snorted. "So they want to speak with Dad too?"

A golden head jerked up from a fruit and actually seemed to hiss in complaint. Harry hissed back sympathetically, then turned back to Dervas, ignoring the spreading circle of shocked expressions and whispering that followed. "I'll have her take it right away – knowing Dad she'll have to stay overnight by the fire." Salissa perked up at the mention of warm fires.

"In Sigh-ro-dile," Dervas grinned.

"_What?_"

"That's how she pronounced Cyrodiil."

"Sigh-ro-dile," Harry repeated with a fixed expression.

He would have repressed his laughter but Sallissa made a remark that set him into hysterics.


	22. Chapter 22

**For those who came in late:**

Ra'jirra's accepted some interesting invitations. Harry's about to take the snake by whatever it is you take snakes by. And I think this turd of a chapter has been polished enough. After this Halloween I think. _Action!_

**For those who came in somewhat later:**

I've made what's hopefully a bugfix, as one reader walked off, claiming I was going down the 'poor put-on Snape' road. Poor fellow. I can't even thank him for pointing that bug out.

**At Malfoy Manor:**

"Begging pardon Lord Malfoy," the house elf cringed, "but there is something at the door wanting in."

Lucius stared at... Dobby, that was the little wretch's name. "Something?" He cast _Tempus. _Eleven o'clock, which meant the Arch-Mage should have arrived by Portkey. "You mean the Arch-Mage?"

"It is calling itself Arch-Mage Ra'jirra, Lord Malfoy sir," Dobby responded, "but it be looking like a cat in a bag sir and Dobby isn't letting any cats in..."

Harry's remarks to Draco (which Draco had passed on to his father) had made it _quite_ clear that the Arch-Mage wasn't human. "Let him in, Dobby," he growled, feeling a small disaster looming. Of _course_ it would be _this_ pathetic excuse for a house-elf who'd answer the damn door...

"Lord Malfoy sir be expecting the Arch-Mage, not some cat-man in a..."

Dobby went flying with a well-aimed _Expelliarmus_ as Lucius hurried out of the study to the foyer, flinging open the door.

What had happened, it turned out, was that Ra'jirra was still recovering from the effects of Portkey travel when Dobby had answered the door, and Dobby's refusal to let 'the naughty cat' in hadn't helped the evidently old fellow's temper at all. "Are all these 'port keys' like that?" the blue-robed Khajiit demanded irritably, waving the short piece of ribbon about.

"You've never travelled by Portkey before?" Lucius asked neutrally.

"Certainly not!" Ra'jirra's ears were laid back as he spat his words out. "Most of the time it's foot or horseback, but the other day I was riding a train. But never been hooked in the gut, spun through Gods-know-where, and dumped on doorsteps! Don't even think Morrowind's guild guides were that bad!"

Lucius blinked. "Guild guides?"

"Let's just say Morrowind had some interesting things going on magic-wise, but after Dagoth Ur was foiled, they became history." The Arch-Mage shrugged. "Wouldn't mind _that_ bit of history repeating... anyway, looks like your study."

Lucius noticed his ears were perked, which hopefully meant he was calming down. Truth be told, his study was an almost archetypical place: almost every wall was covered in bookcases, with displays of the more publically palatable family 'heirlooms' and portraits of Malfoys past between them. Those lacking bookcases made up for it in bay windows looking imperiously on the manor grounds.

Stick some pointed ears under Lucius' long blonde hair and Ra'jirra could have been back in Tamriel with some elven noble offering him a drink.

"...Wine, perhaps?" Lucius asked from in front of a cabinet, "Or maybe some of Old Ogden's..."

"After that damn trip I need something stiff enough to make Molag Bal celibate for a week."

Lucius had to concentrate very hard to avoid spilling firewhiskey, since burning holes in the woodwork simply wasn't the done thing.

Ra'jirra accepted the two fingers of liquor, sniffed appreciatively, then threw it back. His amber eyes went wide and two jets of steam blasted out his nostrils. "Stendarr's balls!" he finally gasped, "that leaves Nordic firewater in the dust!" which he then followed by holding out his tumbler for a refill.

The second tot went down slower, and it was a slightly mellower if notably steaming Arch-Mage who answered Lucius' query about his position.

"I got the position by doing a few good deeds for the Guild," he explained, "though to be perfectly honest I was focussed on getting entry to the Arcane University so I didn't twig until my, uh, initiation quest that there was a serious problem with necromancy. After that I spent less time hitting books and more time hitting corpse-humpers. Traven liked that, so I rose through the ranks right fast."

"Arch-Mage Traven?"

"Yep – at first I took instruction from Headmaster Polus, but soon I was getting orders from Traven himself." Ra'jirra's face fell. "Then Traven sacrificed himself so I could escape a trap and kill the King of Worms in his stead."

Lucius took as discrete a gulp as he could manage. As Ra'jirra expounded, another gulp followed, then the head of House Malfoy desperately needed another. Apparently this Arch-Mage had spent most of his adult life fighting either necromancers, or cultists from another plane of existence, or was that cultists who worshipped princes from another plane? – oh never mind, the important thing was that Ra'jirra was clearly no Dumbledore. Just like Snape had said.

"Ah..." he looked down desperately at his empty glass, which an unseen house-elf replaced with a filled one. "At least you shouldn't need to worry about such foes here."

"I hope not," the Khajiit grunted, "that's why I accepted your invitation."

This meeting was sputtering from one shock to the next. "Pardon?"

"According to old Dumbledore you're supposed to have been enslaved or something by this Voldemort. What was he like?"

Lucius took a breath. "He wanted... he wanted to preserve wizarding life, from the... depredations of the... muggleborns. We have fine traditions that have served us well for hundreds of years, you know," he began to warm to his theme, "and along come these... these... _tourists,_ who we teach in the ways of magic, show them the superiority of wizarding ways, and what do they do? Claim muggles can do things better! Act as though they are the equals of Ancient and Noble Houses! Run back to the muggle world saying they're being discriminated against! Make foolish demands for changing our ways, when they have been proven to work and keep us safe!" He sank back into his chair and fumed into his firewhiskey.

"Okay, so that's what he believed, fine. So what was the sod _like?_ Never mind what he wanted, how'd he go about it?"

Lucius frowned as he mentally polished his response. "If you opposed him," he said at last, "he..." A shudder seemed appropriate. "He had no mercy for you. Young, old, man or woman. I didn't want my family name to be wiped out so... so I took his mark."

Switching his glass into his left hand, he pushed up the sleeve of his robe to reveal his Lord's mark. Ra'jirra got up and eyed the feared emblem of a skull with a snake crawling out of its mouth.

"Cheesiest bloody tat I've ever seen."

"It's not _just_ a tattoo," Lucius snapped in annoyance, "It's charmed to let Him summon his servants at any time, and you ignored the summons on pain of... well, pain, even death!" _To say nothing of his wrath when you finally _did_ show up..._

"Interesting," Ra'jirra's voice softened in thought, "I've never heard of an enchanted tattoo before... Anyway, he sounds like a complete bastard to work for though."

The silver-haired man chuckled dryly. "You have no idea."

"Almost feel sorry for the sod..." the old Khajiit's thoughts went unsaid as a small bell tinkled from anywhere. It was with some sense of relief that Lucius led his guest to the private dining room; after all, the formal hall would be far too empty with just the three of them.

Narcissa was already there, looking as regal as she could without completely ignoring the Arch-Mage. Her eyes widened noticeably, however, which Ra'jirra suffered in silence.

"Lucius," she greeted her husband, "and is this...?"

"Arch-Mage Ra'jirra, my wife, Narcissa Malfoy," and the old Khajiit bowed, "Narcissa, the Arch-Mage Ra'jirra of the Imperial Mage's Guild of Cyrodiil." Ra'jirra was pleased that at least _one_ Earth wizard had done their homework.

They sat down to a light luncheon that was hearty by Ra'jirra's standards and he said so. "Mind you, it was usually bread, water, and anything else I'd picked up or killed on the way. From your own farm?" He gestured at the grilled fillet that was already half-vanished.

"Not all of it," Lucius evaded elegantly, "We have a satisfactory arrangement with other families."

"Back at Faregyl we mostly grow our own," Ra'jirra reminisced, "and of course my wife still grows those jumbo spuds she uses for her potato bread. That's how I first met her, you know..." This was followed by an entertaining story involving an ogre and S'jirra's concern for the _pommes de terre_ of her labours.

"Anyway that's how I met my wife," he finished, "What about you two?"

"An arranged betrothal between our Houses," Narcissa replied, "The Blacks are an Ancient and Noble House, after all, and my father would only choose the most suitable partner for me."

Ra'jirra shrugged. _Arranged marriage eh? See the upper classes are as inbred here as back home._ "Reminds me of poor old Lord gro-Shurgak up in Cheydinhal," he said blandly, "He's been trying to find a suitable swain for his daughter. Problem is, she won't consider anyone who won't gift her with a suitable axe, and Rugdumph won't let her have one because it's 'unbecalming for a repeatable lady born to the gantry', or something like that, so it's a stalemate on the marriage front."

Lucius snorted. "'Unbecalming'? Does he really talk like that?"

"You've no idea. When the Bruma-Cheydinhal Railway was opened, we all had to suffer through an hour of him dropping words on their heads – without laughing."

"Rather strange name," Narcissa mused, "Where are they from?"

"Orsinium, I suppose," Ra'jirra shrugged, "after all they're Orcs." He looked at her with his best serious face. "Why? You know someone who's into green skin and fangs and has a suitable axe for a, as her dad would put it, 'loathely lady'?"

Lucius choked on his wine.

After the dignity of the Malfoys was restored, and the sweet course arrived, Ra'jirra decided to get down to brass tacks.

"To be honest, when I let the old man gas on about himself, he didn't seem to like you very much. What d'you think of him?"

"You mean Dumbledore?" Narcissa asked and was answered with a nod.

Lucius swallowed his mouthful of lambington and spoke. "To be honest, while Dumbledore _is_ a great wizard, personally I find his politics... ah, questionable."

"How so?"

"Do you have any idea how much power he holds in our world? Not only is he the Headmaster of Hogwarts, he's the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot – our government –"

"Yeah, I know that, and the Supreme Mugwhump of the entire world, right?"

"Exactly! The old man not only can dictate how and what can be done to protect witchcraft and wizardry all over the civilised world, but even more so here in Britain, not to mention what he can put in our children's heads in school! Doesn't help he plays favourites either," the blond wizard added darkly.

"Favourites?"

"He's a Gryffindor, and they've had it in for Slytherins like my wife and I since those two Founders fell out. I've been informed that he coddles the 'house of the brave' – and _stupid_ – but woe betide any snake who gets in trouble with him! If you want an example, just ask Professor Snape about his school days..."

**Funnily enough, that evening:**

Severus was settling down to grind through marking – harshly – another excrescence of first-year essays; much red ink would be spilled over incoherent regurgitation of jumbled extracts from the textbooks, more so if that insufferable Muggleborn Granger vomited up everything she'd memorised _again_. The knock on the door was thus not quite unwelcome.

A quick spell showed Potter in front of it, with a determined look on his face. "Enter," Snape barked, pulling out the hard chair he kept for errant brats.

"Professor," Harry pressed his palms together and bowed, to Snape's surprise. "Please tell me about my mother."

Snape just stared at the boy in confusion. "Your... Lily? Why?"

"Because the Headmaster," Harry's voice was tight, "has been arranging for me to take tea with Hagrid, who tells me stories about my father and his friends, but barely mentions my mother unless I push him, and apparently you were schooled when they were, so –" he took a breath, "that's why I'm asking you."

Severus just blinked, some painful memories coming to the fore, then tamped them down. "Lily..." he began, then halted as a logjam of thought clogged his tongue.

_The brat had some nerve, opening old wounds,_ one thought went; _tell him to get out, he's interrupting this damn marking – oh yes, and he just earned himself a D._

_Then again, what did I expect? His stepfather's a walking lion and admitted that the brat charges headlong into danger. Gryffindor to the bone._

_And the old fool's trying to make that worse is he? Get that stupid oaf to fill his empty head with stories about James the bloody Noble against the..._

_Oh, I can cope! In the next bloody lesson he and those other Gryffindor brats will lose their house points, they always do._

_Yes. Stick it to the old fool _and_ that bastard, may he burn in hell._

"The reason Lily is given short shrift by Hagrid is because she was a Muggleborn," he decided to explain first, "and as such everyone was surprised," _myself included,_ "when Lord Potter asked her to marry him." He grimaced. "Also she didn't spend much time with Hagrid anyway."

"Lord?" was Harry's intelligent query. "My father was a lord?"

"Well of course," Snape replied, once more knocked off balance, "The Potters are one of the Ancient and Noble Houses of the British wizarding world. Surely you know that?"

Harry just shook his head. "Never been told."

The Potions Master just sank back into his chair, stunned. _Dumbledore, you old fool, why didn't you tell Harry or that Arch-Mage about this! Are you trying to – oh stop it Sev', Harry wants to know about his mother._

"Let's get back to Lily," Snape declared, "She was a brilliant girl, quite gifted, intelligent, hell, I can remember some of the teachers getting quite flustered by some of her questions. As opposed to _James_ and his little gang," he added bitterly.

"We got on well, in fact it was me who showed her she was a witch, when we were children, living in a place called Cokeworth..." his voice faded as he remembered those days before the acceptance letters, Hogwarts, and _him_.

"Anyway, when we got to Hogwarts we ran into _James,_" and his voice hardened again. "He was a bully as a boy all through my school days, because he was a Gryffindor and I was Slytherin. Lily couldn't stand him at first, called him an arrogant toe-rag a few times," he chuckled, "And when he started trying to court her in fifth year – did Hagrid tell you about –"

"The bubotuber pus and the underwear that wouldn't come off? Yeah."

Snape actually burst out laughing briefly, then sobered. "He probably didn't tell you that _James'_ friends thought I did it and pranked me viciously until he was released from the Healing Wing."

"They sound like bullies." Harry's voice was flat. "I don't like bullies."

"They were," Snape was starting to like the boy more and more. _He truly is his mother's son._ "Unfortunately there was one time when I... I called Lily a Mudblood, when she was trying to get the idiots to lay off me." He looked down at the desk.

"We were... Lily didn't approve of my studying the Dark Arts, so we were already drifting apart, and I was upset at the time..."

"What's a Mudblood?"

Snape drew a breath. "In our society," he began, "ancestry is given great importance. Those families with many generations of witches and wizards are known as Pureblood, and some can trace their lineage back to the Founders of Hogwarts."

"Oh, right, I get it," Harry then sing-songed in a way that Snape suspected was imitating his stepfather, "'I'm a descendant of Great Lord Stick-Up-the-Arse, I'm better than you.'"

_Good God,_ Snape thought, _that's the Dark Lord to a tee. He was always going on about being descended from Slytherin. I'm surprised he didn't try to prove he was the heir of Merlin himself._

"James was like that too," he couldn't resist adding. "And because he was a spoiled brat, and because Dumbledore kept excusing his excesses..." he took a breath. "He nearly killed me one night."

"From a prank?"

"He thought it would be funny to lure me into the same room as a werewolf during the full moon."

Harry's jaw dropped. "You have Hircine's Claimed here as well?"

Snape just blinked, confused, then decided to dismiss it as local colour. "Ah... yes, we have them here. Anyway, the only reason he did that was because it finally occurred to him that if I died, the Headmaster would know it was _his_ friend who did it, and likely trace the blame back to _him_." Snape scowled angrily. "Dumbledore knew that bastard had it in for me after all..."

"He saved you to save himself," Harry understood, and liked his father even less. "Well sod him, what about my mother?"

For some reason that statement of dismissal improved Snape's spirits immensely.

**About the same time, at the Fudge residence:**

The Minister of Magic had returned home at last, after another trying day of dealing with matters of import. He'd also dealt with matters of export as well, two or three appeals by some of the more influential members of the Wizengamot, and a raft of fiddlework.

He'd received an owl from Lord Malfoy, splendid chap, which had stood him in good stead when the Arch-Mage of Cyrodiil arrived that afternoon.

Indeed, Lord Malfoy's advice had saved the appointment from complete disaster.

Firstly, he and his escort had caused a small sensation when they entered Diagon Alley – not helped by one well-meaning wizard trying to negate the 'obvious effects of a Polyjuice potion'. The Arch-Mage's reaction had been, in retrospect, completely understandable, and no lasting injury was caused, but the Aurors _had _been called.

Malfoy had warned that the Arch-Mage's appearance was 'cat-like', but he hadn't made it clear that the man _looked_ like a cat, tail and all.

When that misunderstanding had been cleared up, another one had occurred almost immediately on entering the Ministry. All visitors are expected to register their wands before progressing, and Errol... it _was_ Errol wasn't it? Yes, must be... Munch was diligent. If you didn't weigh your wand, you didn't get entry.

Unfortunately neither the Arch-Mage nor his escort apparently carried wands. The Arch-Mage, however, _did_ have a very heavy metal club.

"Is that your wand?" He'd heard Munch stutter.

"Well," the Arch-Mage had replied, "If you're close enough when I wave it you fall down dead."

By the time _that _had been sorted out – with no demonstrations of his "wand" – it was quite clear that Lord Malfoy was right about the irascible... man's... temper and bluntness as well. When the Arch-Mage... what was it? Oh yes, Ra'jirra – Merlin knew he wouldn't forget in a hurry! – finally arrived at his office, both he and his escort were in need of mollification.

They got Under-Secretary Umbridge instead.

"Arch-Mage," she'd smiled, ignoring Ra'jirra and concentrating on the other Cyrodiil wizard who was escorting him, "Please accept our apologies..."

"I'm sure he will," the man had responded wryly, "but I think you owe him some more. I'm but a humble Conjurer of the Guild. May I introduce to you..."

Member of the Imperial Council. Knight of the White Stallion of Lay-a-Win. Friend of the Champion of Cyrodiil. And before he himself could say anything –

"This _creature_?"

Fudge groaned into his firewhiskey at the memory. He knew that Delores had issues with magical creatures, especially the intelligent ones, but with that word she had nearly ended the meeting before it began!

Once tempers had been mollified – a process involving a thoroughly insincere apology followed by her ejection from his office – the first words out of the Arch-Mages mouth were: "So far, the only intelligent life we've met has been at Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor, I swear." Hardly the best place to start a tête-à-tête from.

It took a while, but it soon turned out that Ra'jirra was indeed the Arch-Mage, had earned the rank by apparently defeating some sort of Dark Lord, and was indeed a Very Important Personage. Not to mention a regular citizen of Cyrodiil. Delores would have a fit at hearing _that_.

On the brighter side, he'd learned that apparently Dumbledore hadn't bothered to inform the Boy-Who-Lived about his inheritance. The old boy had sealed the Potter wills, but that was apparently for the boy's safety...

...So why hadn't he _unsealed_ them yet? Yes, Harry Potter was only eleven, but with the patronage of a high-ranking pillar of society (admittedly a completely different society, and exhibiting all the patience and tolerance of a dyspeptic nundu) surely it would be safe to give young Harry access to his family properties and heirlooms?

Needless to say, the Arch-Mage hadn't been pleased to learn about this from a known adversary of Dumbledore's, and months after their first meeting. "You'd _think_ that something that important would have come up sometime," had been Ra'jirra's decidedly acid words.

It seemed this Ra'jirra was _not_ awed by the marvels of the Wizarding World, mainly due to its inhabitants. Especially the old fool of Hogwarts, who was notorious for keeping mum until absolutely the last minute... then laying down the law as if from Merlin himself.

Putting down the tumbler, Cornelius Fudge stood up and headed purposefully into his study. Collecting parchment and quill, he began to draw up a plan of action for getting the Boy-Who-Lived his inheritance. Not to mention incentive to stay after finishing his education – and his 'quest', as Ra'jirra put it, to kill V... v... Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

And best of all, it would be excellent publicity for himself and the Ministry! Why, he could see it now: _That's Cornelius Fudge, _they'd say of him, indicating his portrait, _The Man Who Brought the Boy-Who-Lived Back to Stay._

It was such a delightful image he began to whistle as he worked.


	23. Chapter 23

**For those who came in late:**

Harry, in the quest for information on his mum, did something stupid. Malfoy, in his quest for power, also did something stupid. Fudge, in his quest to retain power, made everyone look stupid, but at least he learned how to make amends.

**About four days later at breakfast:**

Harry was still being ostracised by the rest of Gryffindor, and he wasn't liking it. Then again, he counted Draco as one of his circle, which didn't sit well with a lot of them anyway, but somehow his visit to Snape had become common knowledge. The great collective Gryffindor brain – an organ apparently resembling a block of something dense – had managed to work out that this _voluntary_ visit (_not_ a detention, that would have been _acceptable_) preceded the current outbreak of bad temper and points deducting, and as a result –

"Why ask that greasy git?" Harry closed his eyes and silently besought Julianos' help in controlling his temper. He really didn't want to look at Ron talking with his mouth full again. "You _know_ he hates all of us, and _you_ most of all! Snakes hate us, everyone..."

"Not all of them," Hermione interrupted, not looking at him to prevent nausea. "Pansy and I were having a quite nice conversation until that Blaise showed up."

"Pansy?" Ron looked at her cluelessly.

"Pansy Parkinson," Draco clarified, "the instru-, ah, inn- ?" Once again, the peculiar inability of wizard-kind to easily grasp new terms and concepts revealed itself.

"Industrialist's daughter," Hermione came to Draco's aid, "We were talking about brooms and space travel. It all hinges on how magic flows through the broom, you see..."

Ron's eyes, like everyone else's, glazed over out of reflex. However, after several weeks of training by Harry, Hermione recognised the symptoms and changed mental gears with some effort.

"...Anyway, that Blaise Zabini showed up with his goons in tow, made all sorts of insulting comments, and Pansy just looked at him and said, 'But has _your_ father been honoured by the Queen? _Mine_ has.' He didn't know what to say to that, just looked gormless and left."

Draco was looking gormless as well. "Honoured? What for?"

"Services to... oh, what was it? Um... the economy and British business I think."

"Business?" Draco looked uncertain. "So he's a shopkeeper then?"

Hermione dropped her head into her hands. It was either that or bang her head on her breakfast.

**Around the same time:**

Dumbledore read the _Daily Prophet_ without pleasure. After Fudge's meeting with Ra'jirra – a meeting preceded by the Arch-Mage taking lunch with _Malfoy,_ of all people – the Minister had been surprisingly adamant about unsealing the Potter will as soon as possible. The débâcle that had been the Arch-Mage's introduction to the Ministry of Magic did really require an apology, true, but as he'd tried to make the Wizengamot in general and Fudge in particular understand, there were more important considerations.

The first being Harry's safety of course; while his first excursion into Diagon Alley had been without and incident of note, who was to say that one of the Dark Lord's followers wouldn't be waiting? For that matter, what would happen if Harry was to visit the Potter properties, beyond the immediate reach of himself, the Order of the Phoenix, or (in a pinch) the Aurors?

The second consideration, he explained, was that Harry had to focus on learning the tried and true magics of his homeland. Nothing should be allowed to interfere with his studies, let alone his forging appropriate relationships with his fellow wizards, he had argued. Even Malfoy had nodded at that.

His third argument was that Harry was still a minor, and thus not able to cope with the duties and cares of an estate; surely it was best to wait until he achieved his majority, as per tested and true Wizarding law and tradition?

That almost scuppered whatever Fudge was up to. The members of the Wizengamot were _very_ fond of tradition and law, and did not usually like granting exceptions.

Nobody expected the Goblin Liason.

That worthy simply stated two facts. Firstly, that Gringotts had been trying almost nonstop to contact Harry Potter regarding his inheritance, and secondly, that they were now aware that _someone_ was confounding their owls, and thus messing with confidential messages. And if, the anxious Goblin Liason explained, this situation continued, they would be "forced" to review their banking procedures – including all fees and charges.

Dumbledore could have _strangled_ the bastard.

First, several members observed that the question of security would be nicely covered by the Potter fortune with galleons to spare. Second, Dumbledore was reminded – repeatedly – about the existence of stewards, and hadn't _he_ set himself up as steward to the Potter seat in the Wizengamot?

Thirdly, everyone liked the current goblin relationship, fee structures and all, just the way it was, thank you very much, and the less reason the goblins had to "review" any of it, the better.

What made things worse was that he couldn't escort Harry himself because of the goblins' suspicions. A few careful concessions over the past few years had helped soothe tempers, but not quite enough. Showing up now might reveal answers that needed to be kept hidden for the Greater Good.

The end result was that Dumbledore watched with little enthusiasm as the doors to the Great Hall swing open to admit three figures that arrested all attention.

"I think he and the goblins are going to get on splendidly." Flitwick was eyeing the advancing Arch-Mage with a more military eye than the general student body, whose collective eye could be adequately described as uncomprehending.

Yes, Harry had mentioned frequently that his Dad was the Arch-Mage, and yes, he'd mentioned that he was a Khajiit. But nobody had _quite_ understood

Ra'jirra's kit could be best described as a slightly greenish-gold. Looked at one way, the patterns on helmet, cuirass, shield and boots were feathers; another way, scales. Leather gauntlets and greaves completed the ensemble.

The oddly utilitarian mace on his left hip appeared to be a solid brass ball on a handle, and its colour clashed slightly with the Ayleid gear, not that it mattered, given the obvious signs of wear, tear and repair. Indeed, apart from the leather parts of his attire, the closer he came the more obvious it was that it had seen repeated action in the past with him in it. This wasn't just some heirloom suit dusted off to impress the goblins. Neither were the heavier steel suits being sported by the blue-hooded battlemagi behind him.

Anachronistically, some sort of boxy pistol, battered and mangy with age and repair, jounced against his right thigh.

"Headmaster," the Arch-Mage's formal bow of greeting was as brusque as his tone, "I'm here to pick up Harry for the will reading. Should be back before lunch."

"Arch-Mage," Dumbledore nodded, "may I offer the use of my Floo? I think it would be safer for you and Harry than a Portkey or Apparation." _And I can convince you to leave Harry here, or at least ensure he isn't distracted by the family holdings and wants to run off and explore them. Damn it, it isn't _safe_ out there!_

"What the hells is a Floo, and will I get some idiot trying to zap me when I arrive?" There was the lightest emphasis on the _when._ It took all of Dumbledore's self-control not to wince.

"Is _that_ your Dad?" The voice was childish, notably incredulous, and audibly speaking with its mouth full.

"Yeah," responded a more familiar voice, and Ra'jirra turned to smile at his son, who was already striding quickly to join him. He _did_ pause, give the formal bow of greeting, but then couldn't stand it any more and burst out, "Hi Dad!"

The incredulous silence was deafening as even the slowest student cottoned on that this otherworldly figure was Harry's stepfather.

Pansy gawked; the catlike man was unlike anything she'd seen before. His silvering fur made her think of... what was it? Oh yeah – one of those pallas cats crossed with a lion. And his stance made it clear he wasn't awed by Dumbledore at all.

"You brought Doctor Haines' laser," Harry was observing, pointing to the gun. Pansy's eyes widened even further. _A laser pistol? A real laser pistol? How'd he get something like that? Dad'll _kill_ for something like that!_

Blaise Zabini was also gawking, albeit his thoughts were more like: _That creature is Potter's guardian? Damn, Mother won't be interested... all right, maybe she would, but people might talk and make fun of me. But I should owl her anyway if Potter's coming into his inheritance._

Snape just glowered at _Potter_ and his beastly guardian until he noticed one of the battlemagi watching him. It wasn't an overtly hostile look, but a disquietingly neutral one, as though Snape was just another log in the woodpile.

Quirinus Quirrell was in two minds. He, himself, suspected that anyone trying something would be either captured or (more likely) dead, from the look of them. He, someone else, agreed.

_Not here. The brat and the beast have made enough noise to attract my _truly –

Quirrell winced and squeezed his eyes shut as pain blossomed in his head. Snape, more acclimatised to the sensation, carefully massaged his left arm casually.

– _loyal followers._

**Subsequently, in Diagon Alley:**

"How big is this place anyway?" Ra'jirra asked in apparent laziness, his eyes sweeping around the old street with feigned disinterest. Harry, not being shepherded around by Grangers, also took the time to really drink in the sights of a wizarding shopping precinct, and the two battlemagi scanned the place alertly.

After a short rebuttal of Dumbledore's concerns ("Look, I'm armed, magical and dangerous, so are they, and apparently there's some Aurochs joining us, so we should be all right"), followed by an experience that Ra'jirra declared was even _less_ pleasant than bloody Portkeys, they had indeed been greeted by a pair of Aurors. One was a young man named Horrocks, whose chin had apparently left for parts unknown. The other was a young pink-haired woman who insisted on being called "just Tonks. I hate my given name."

"Well, Diagon is the main one, but the next best-known one is Knockturn Alley," she was explaining, "but there's also Latter Alley and Orthogon Alley. But any reputable business worth visiting is here in Diagon."

Years of serving on the Imperial Council clued Ra'jirra into the emphasis on 'reputable'. Evidently anyone working or shopping beyond the main drag was considered dodgy. Thanks to the translation necklaces, the wordplay of which magicals seemed fond went straight over his head.

"Not many children," the Khajiit observed, idly glancing toward Quality Quidditch Supplies. He was in that strange mystic state that some adventurers can enter, where subtle cues of danger stand out like flags. Dumbledore had _really_ wanted Harry to stay home, which probably meant someone would try something stupid either now or when they came out.

"Most of them are either at Hogwarts or are being tutored at home," Tonks shrugged, but her eyes were on the entrance to Knockturn Alley. In her mind, if anything was going to happen, it would happen as they passed that cesspool.

It was always hard to describe, that moment when all the small hints merge into one bright banner of _Danger! _The prickle of hairs, the pull on your eyes, the sounds that replaced the ones that should be there – and in this case a pale face barking words that drew fell light from a wand.

"Down!" Ra'jirra followed the order with his own descent to one knee, choosing arms over magic and an AEP7 laser pistol over the mace. Tonks automatically threw up a shield, which almost immediately collapsed from the energy behind the ugly rot-coloured pulse. Harry, judging that father knows best, dived behind them.

"What?" Horrocks blinked stupidly, then brandished his wand and shouted "Aurors! Drop your wands!"

The battlemagi, recognising an amateur when they saw one, ignored him and advanced, launching elemental shock energies at the dimly visible figure. Whoever it was threw up a shield, which fluctuated wildly as the lightnings clawed at it. Then there was a snap-bang, followed by a scream of pain as a yellow-red beam speared right through.

Laser weapons, as everyone knows, don't drill neat little cauterised holes in people – not man-portable ones anyway. Besides, to drill a hole would require continuous operation, which would melt the shooter's pistol and hands first. The AEP7 instead uses the far more sensible (and cooler, in both senses) method of a short sequence of laser pulses, flash-heating the target such that the resultant vapour expansion blows debris out of the way before the next pulse strikes.

All of which explained why both Horrocks and the would-be assailant were having a puking contest.

"Merlin," Tonks whispered, trying not to notice the smell of half-cooked meat, and _really_ trying _not_ to look at the gory two-inch-wide hole that exposed bone.

"We have his wand sir," one of the battlemagi remarked, pointing to the tip peeking out from one iron boot.

"Wow!" Harry marvelled. He'd never seen Dad use a laser gun before, and it was _neat!_

"Well," Ra'jirra shrugged, holstering the pistol, "We've cooked 'im, hooked 'im, might as well book 'im."

Tonks just stared at him in disbelief.

**About an hour late, in Gringotts:**

"You're Griphook?" Ra'jirra was still edgy. Despite the respectful salutes the guards had given him outside the bank, the fact remained that he was in a place not just full of goblins, but actually _run_ by them. It was all he could do to restrain himself from letting reflex take over.

"That I am," the goblin in question replied, more than a little irritably. "And you are late."

"I blame the cunt who tried to waylay us just outside Diagon," the Khajiit shrugged. "Wasn't much of a fight, though." He ticked off salient points on one hand. "Bastard launched spells at us; whatsername, Tonks, whistled up some sort of magic barrier; the other twerp made like a spare prick at a honeymoon; my escorts moved to flank him with shock spells; and I zapped his shoulder open once _his_ barrier broke. You could say Haines saved my life again."

"Haines?" Griphook was all about 'time is money', but the being sitting across from him was clearly a warrior by his bearing. His armour and weaponry was obviously _not_ ornamental from the way he'd moved in it, and that piqued his curiosity.

"Earnest Haines," Ra'jirra carefully extracted the boxy weapon from its holster and equally carefully held it up on its side, grip towards the goblin. Griphook leaned forward, noting the scope fitted to the top, the glassy expanse of the output lens, and the signs of wear. "It was his signature weapon. I carry it to honour his supreme sacrifice to, ah, well it's a long story but he basically made life a _lot _easier for all."

"I've never seen a muggle gun like that before," Griphook grunted. He didn't like guns, sharing the goblin preference for getting up close and personal so you could a) make sure the enemy was dead, b) and that one got one's rightful due, and c) inhale the foe's dying breath to make his life your own.

"Laser pistol, over two hundred years old and still working. Basically he saved my bacon a few times, I saved his, we stopped some right ratbags from killing everyone they didn't like on principle and, well, finished his dad's work. It's a long story. I'll send you a copy of the book for Saturalia."

"A worthy weapon then," Griphook finally conceded, "And the other?"

"This old kit? Won it off the leader of a pack of marauders in eastern Cyrodiil," Ra'jirra explained, "He didn't want to give it up, but I wanted to live more, so after a while he didn't really need it. Been through more ruins, bandits, corpse-humpers including the big head one, and the Battle of the Imperial City." The old Khajiit's voice trailed off as he remembered.

Griphook blinked, recognising this being as a genuine veteran. "My apologies, then," he said, "I was suspicious that such garb was nothing more than an attempt to impress us – which would be an insult."

"Well, there's a bit of that, but also someone was expecting trouble. So it was on with the old work clothes. With any luck there'll be another pack of idiots wanting to play when we leave."

"Well then," Griphook grunted, and drew out a formal-looking parchment, "since you have faced battle already coming here, I _suppose_ an hour of undoubted harassment by those Aurors," his voice dripped venom, "is nothing compared to the _years_ of delay in having this will read."

"These people are all obsessed with wands! I think it took about five minutes to debrief us, and the rest of the time they were arguing that we _must_ have wands because we did magic. Anyway: Wills."

The goblin just blinked at the peculiar cat-man-warrior before him, before snapping the seal on the packet on his desk and taking out the first sheet.

* * *

AN: No more PMs about the lack of a canon will, thank you! Now I have to create one, and make sure it's not overpowered.


	24. Chapter 24

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

Helena Lovejoy, heiress to the Halibut millions, has been caught with reknowned bounder Dick Scratcher – no wait, wrong story. Sorry. And © Spike Milligan into the bargain. Naughty Boxy.

Anyway, the Potter will has finally been read, and instead of returning straight to the sixth-finest magical learning institution in the world, Harry and Ra'jirra are making a detour.

**One really rather boring and undeserving of being described in unnecessary detail will reading later:**

Benny didn't wake. One moment, he and the others were laying themselves down prior to stasis; now he was sitting upright. Potter House had visitors.

He could feel the ancestral wards glowering at two people, but at this distance he couldn't see who they were. Were Lord Jimmy and Missus Lilybug come back at last? To judge by all the dust he could see, it had been close to eleven years. The thought of all the cleaning, dusting and polishing that waited for him and the others made him quite giddy with excitement. And of course Lord Jimmy and Missus Lilybug would be hungry, and Little Master Harryjames as well, oh, they must...

The house elf stretched his awareness into the wards. They still held, if a little battered; a couple still held the imprints of three particularly stubborn wizards who had managed to penetrate surprisingly close to the house and its precious treasures before the _really_ sadistic wards got them. He actually moaned with ecstasy when he realised that there would be so much _gardening_ too, and had to sit down and breathe deeply for a minute before he managed to collect himself.

The wards' malevolence subsided. It _must_ be Lord Jimmy and Missus Lilybug and Little Master Harryjames! Well, not so little no doubt, _Young_ Master Harryjames would be eleven years old now, and that meant – tears of joy actually landed on the floor – the complete remodelling of Young Master Harryjames' room!

There was no time. Benny quickly began to pull his fellow house elves out of stasis, giving them orders to clean, cook and prepare for Master and Missus and Young Master too, well not so young now, he'll be in the Hoggywarts now, and hurry, for they are almost at the door!

Benny turned his attention to the entrance hall, and bent his power to scourging its surfaces. Ten years in stasis, bereft of the bond between the Potterses and his tribe, slowed him to a crawl. It took nearly thirty seconds to make the room _barely_ acceptable to him.

"So this is your parents' place, eh?" The voice was that of a man's, but not Master Jimmy. Also there was something off about it, an echo of magic. "Nice place. But large for a 'house' isn't it?"

"Dad," a child replied – could it be Young Master Harryjames? – "You know the Potters were an Ancient and Noble House."

Benny frowned. That same echo of magic there.

"Well anyway, you know what you have to do," the man declared, now right outside the door, "place your hand against the knocker and say your lines."

"Right," and the house woke in a shiver of activated wards, suspicion and menace bending towards the front door. Benny shivered. Even though he could easily pop away, being just eight feet away from potential and terrific magical violence was unnerving.

"I am Harry James Potter," the boy recited, "son of James Potter and Lily Evan Potter, heir of House Potter. By the will of my parents, and my rights as heir, I claim this property as mine!"

The knocker's lone flat _clack_ seemed to make the entire house shiver again as the ancient protective magics, now mollified, subsided. Benny straightened, blinking away tears of happiness, and with a snap of his fingers unlocked the door.

The boy revealed within the doorway wore Hoggywarts robes, his face framed by hair as black as Master Jimmy's, and eyes greener than Missus Lilybugs, if such a thing were possible. He actually looked slightly ridiculous with his hand still raised to grasp the now absent knocker.

Behind him was a horned...

Benny blinked.

A cat's face frowned at him from under some sort of golden helmet with horns. Where Young Master Harryjames was dark, this creature shone with light gleaming from its... armour. "What in the name of Talos' hairy stones are you?" it asked, one hand straying to the weapons on its belt.

"I'd like to know too," Little... _Lord_ Little Master Harryjames added, his wand sliding into his hand. Benny gulped.

"Benny is being head elf of the Potterses' house elves!" he squeaked. It was a far cry from the restrained and formal welcome he'd intended to give. Where were Master Jimmy and Missus Lilybug? "Benny is told by wards you are coming and is getting house all ready!" He couldn't repress the urge to wince at how he sounded; as though he was one of those poor wretches bound to bad families!

"Sheathe your wand," the cat-man told Lord Li... Mas... _Lord Harryjames._

It finally hit him. Y... Lord... Harryjames had spoken the traditional words of inheritance. And the wards had let him.

"You be speaking the words of inheritance," Benny finally stuttered at last. "Then Lord Jimmy is... is dead?"

"'Fraid so, ah, Benny," the cat-man said, "and Lily was killed too, protecting my son here."

For a long while the house elf just stared at the two, unblinking, then with a wail of grief he sank to the floor, making an astonishing amount of noise for a being his size, not to mention emitting a startling amount of tears from his ridiculously large eyes.

Harry stepped into the hall uncertainly and hovered over the weeping house elf, completely at a loss. Ra'jirra went to follow, and barely took two steps across the threshold before a blast of magical force punched him out the door again.

"Dad!" Harry raced outside where the old Khajiit was stirring slowly, mumbling something about battering rams.

"Dad?" Harry didn't think, just pleaded to Stendarr and channelled silver healing into him.

"I'm all right," Ra'jirra half-lied as he heaved himself to his feet, "What in all Oblivion happened?"

"Lord Harryjames Potter must be inviting the stranger cat into the house," Benny explained from the doorway. "Lor... Master Jimmy told the wards, let no stranger in until Potters say otherwise."

"Oh," Harry looked confused.

There were a few other misunderstandings as well, most notably about the role of house elves. Benny's tears over the deaths of poor L... Master Jimmy and Missus Lilybug soon were replaced as the old magical bond between himself, the rest of the house elves and House Potter itself was re-established; he could almost feel his own magic stabilising again. If it hadn't been for their wisely placing them in a magical stasis, which would only be broken when a Potter returned to the house... there were chilling tales told of how house elves went bad, and far, far _worse_ than that.

Harry felt a little ridiculous formally inviting his own dad into the house, but this time Ra'jirra wasn't rudely ejected. Benny led them from the entry hall into a library which, despite the noticeably Gryffindor colour scheme, was a dead ringer for the one in Malfoy Manor.

Portraits stirred and watched the three as the house elf led them to a much newer portrait, this of a husband and wife. He had messy black hair. She had green eyes.

"Harry?" the woman asked in a stunned whisper.

"Merlin's balls," the man exclaimed before the woman elbowed him, "ow! Is that our Prongslet?"

"Must be, he managed to claim this house without dying," Ra'jirra grunted, "So you must be his birth parents."

"What– I mean, who– I mean –" the image of James Potter spluttered in confusion.

"Before I explain, I'll get a couple of chairs," the old Khajiit said, then turned to find a pair of venerable wingbacks had apparently crept up on him and Harry without warning. "Benny is also getting refreshments for Lord Harryjames Potter and his Dad Arch-mage Rajahra," the culprit added before vanishing in a pop of displaced air.

"Technically we were supposed to be back at Hogwarts an hour ago," Ra'jirra added, "but in for a drake, in for a septim I guess..."

**After the dinner hour, Hogwarts:**

The green roar of the Headmaster's office fire disgorged a well overdue Khajiit, and one equally overdue and unrepentant Boy-Who-Lived.

"What happened?" Dumbledore had been increasingly frantic since Nymphadora had told him about the eventful trip to the bank, and how neither had emerged all afternoon. "Where were you?"

"Potter Manor," the two chorused.

"I had to claim my ancestral home," explained Harry.

"And I wasn't letting him go alone," added Ra'jirra.

"And once we were there, Benny led us to a painting of my mother and father, and then we had to explain –"

"_I_ had to explain most of it, son."

"Sorry dad – and they got really upset about the letter you wrote to the Dursleys, and by –"

"The will specifically stated that on _no_ account was Harry to be placed in their care," Ra'jirra's face was grim. "In fact Petunia was noted as unlikely to accept any bequest from 'freaks', so they left her nothing."

"Yeah," Harry's voice was subdued. "Anyway, by the time we'd explained everything it was getting so late, that I told Dad we needed to come back here for dinner, and Benny says 'Lord Harryjames..."

_Lord Harry James Potter._

The words stuck in Dumbledore's mind. They jabbed into his original plan; you couldn't risk the Lord of an Ancient and Noble House on the (correct) assumption that his mortal enemy was a self-absorbed, grandstanding maniac like Tom was. They poked at his hopes for another Light seat in the Wizengamot, which currently was pretty much in the Dark. And they prodded his hopes that he would find his roots here. And really, where better than his ancestral family home?

"Apparently idiots kept trying to break in," Ra'jirra was saying, "but those wards of theirs, well, we spotted the remains of a couple. House needed a little paint but that was about it."

That was one reason Dumbledore had wanted Harry away from the house. The Boy-Who-Lived, in that manor, would have undoubtedly attracted every Death Eater and Dark creature who followed Tom. Yes, the house had still been a magnet for every would-be treasure seeker, but those were fewer than they who wanted Harry's blood. Wards could only do so much after all.

Harry took his cue to describe those remains, and Dumbledore shuddered. He'd forgotten how... vindictive... the Potter ward-makers of old could be. No wonder Voldemort wanted them recruited or else.

"_Anyway,_" Ra'jirra's voice cut Harry short, "the upshot is that you'll be getting a notice from Gringott's tomorrow outlining the Hogwarts bequest and the strings on it. This place gets ten million galleons if you fulfil all the requirements, same as Saint Mangoes."

"Saint Mungo's," Dumbledore corrected automatically. That was a huge sum, and he hoped that the conditions wouldn't be too onerous. With Tom trying to return, the Order would need funding, and a few financial irregularities were all part and parcel of running a school.

"Anyway, it's time the Ancient and Noble Lord Potter –"

Harry turned beet red at that, and Dumbledore chuckled in amusement.

"– went to bed, and same for his old man. Actually, can I see you tomorrow morning? There's a few curly things I want to get straight."

The old wizards looked at each other, and the Headmaster's stomach sank.

**Meanwhile, in front of a computer:**

_No wonder Rowling never mentioned a Potter will,_ the author thought dourly. There were at least two major disruptions his own, relatively modest, Potter will was about to cause. Or at least Lily's riders on the Hogwarts bequest would, and the other...

Once he got _Knowledge is Good, But Power is Power_ out of his head (id 8215565), he would be able to write something that wasn't so derivative. There were already too many outside influences as it was.

With a sigh, he pasted the new chapter and published it, before closing everything and heading off to work. It wasn't as if nobody would detect where the story was going.


	25. Chapter 25

**For those who came in late:**

As well as claiming Potter House and its contents, including a magical portrait of his birth parents, Harry has some largesse to bestow. One of which is going to Hogwarts. But something else has been revealed. It's going to be a lousy morning for two strong-willed magi.

**In the Arch-Mage's quarters, Black Plateau:**

"I," Ra'jirra declared to the ceiling over his bed in a flat tone, "am getting _sick_ of these bloody wizards."

In the interests of honesty we should point out that some pungent terms have been removed for reasons of decency.

With a groan the Khajiit hauled himself out of bed; sensing he wouldn't make it to the jakes he availed himself of the chamber-pot. Some wit had purchased one painted with a picture of Mehrunes Dagon on the bottom, but Ra'jirra's eyes went to the mirror.

For someone in his late forties, Ra'jirra couldn't help but feel that his adventures, repeated near-death experiences, and decades of horse-trading with assorted wizards, politicians and arse-lickers, had piled on a few extra years. _Like my wife piling on extra spoonfuls,_ he almost smiled, but it faded as he absently licked one hand and swiped it over some unruly mane. He looked like sixty and felt like seventy. He felt like calling off the whole shebang and just bringing Harry home and let the whole lot of those wizarding dullards go hang themselves.

He sighed, shuffling his feet and bumping the po. He looked down over a stomach swollen by too much sitting (his wife's cooking was certainly _not _to blame) into the poorly reproduced eyes of a Daedric prince glowering up from beneath the night's worth of urine. "Better get you emptied," he mumbled before someone snapped their fingers and the contents disappeared.

"What the hells!" The Arch-Mage spun, grasping automatically for Destruction, and saw a house elf standing on the bed, cool as a cucumber. "Zespy is emptying the potty," it declared in a feminine tone, "for Lord Harryjames' Dad Arch-Mage Rajerry."

Ra'jirra just stared at the creature in complete shock.

**Meanwhile, in Hogwarts' Great Hall:**

"I hope Dad's enjoying having a house elf," Harry grinned impishly at his plate of bacon, sausage and toast.

"House elf?" Hermione looked confused.

"Cor!" Ron was staring at Harry. "But how? They can't survive without a wizarding family."

"Can't survive?" Hermione looked more confused.

"My, ah, mother and father, put them in stasis wards, until a Potter returned to their house," Harry explained. "Actually, having Zespy follow Dad and serve him was Benny's idea, Dad wasn't all that sure about it but Benny..."

"_Will you please explain what you're talking about?_" Hermione only just managed to keep her voice level. Being left ignorant was a state of affairs she simply could _not_ tolerate.

Draco took a deep breath and turned to the tomato-hued muggleborn. "Consider them a kind of magical servant for now," he said easily, "I'll explain it some more this –"

The word he wanted to say was obliterated by a Belch. Not a belch, mark you, that is too plebian a term, unfit for such a magnificently profound, resonant, downright _arresting_ eructation – excuse me, _Borboryghmus_ – as that which passed the lips of the Malfoy scion. It also smelled slightly of onions.

The silence which fell was punctuated by Draco clapping his hands over his mouth.

"I hope there is a reason for such ill manners, Mister Malfoy," McGonnagall's expression was hard.

It became clear that Draco desperately wanted to explain himself, but every time he opened his mouth, another monumental Borboryghmus came out instead. His expression was split between mortification, panic, and increasing gastric distress.

McGonnagall was occupied escorting a humiliated Draco off to the Medical Wing, so she didn't notice Lee and the Weasley twins grinning and nodding at each other.

**A short time later, in the Headmaster's office:**

"Thanks for seeing me," Ra'jirra grunted as he settled himself, "First off, the bequest. When's the Board of Governors meeting again?"

"Two o'clock this afternoon," Dumbledore replied, then his eyes twinkled. "Somehow I suspect such a rich bequest managed to free up some of their precious time."

"I wonder why," the old Khajiit rolled his eyes, "after all it's only one-sixth of the Potter fortune."

Dumbledore's eyes widened. He'd known the Potters had entered some hard times, and they had been staunch supporters both personally and financially in his attempts to defeat first Gellert and Tom, but... "Sixty million galleons?"

"According to the portraits in the manor, the last three Lords including James were a little, ah, spendthrift, and also they threw quite a lot of money into fighting your bad guys."

The old man was stunned. He knew that the Order of the Phoenix had always had enough money to cover its needs, but that the Potters had been so generous...

"Anyway," Ra'jirra rolled on, "I'd like you to humour me and invite the staff and myself to the meeting, since this involves them, and it'd probably sound better if the bequest was read by a reasonably neutral party, right?"

Dumbledore blinked. "You surprise me," he said at last, "I was of the impression you had little time for, ah, social niceties."

Ra'jirra grimaced. "I'm getting too old for running around the landscape bashing people, and when you're Arch-Mage you tend to spend more time wielding words than anything else. Also, on the Imperial Council I'm known to be a staunch supporter of the Empire and Chancellor Ocato, and I don't mince words with that. So – I'll read the bequest, no doubt there'll be a lot of screaming, there always bloody is, and it gets approved afterwards – and it doesn't look like you're forcing it through." He tapped the side of his nose and winked.

"I don't see any problem with that at all," Dumbledore finally admitted. Originally he'd intended reading out the bequest, then presenting it later to the staff as a _fait accompli_, but this way would be better. Some of the Board – one Slytherin in particular – really wanted him gone so they could enact their Pureblood doctrines. But Ra'jirra's way...

"Now, before we give 'em the good news, I've some questions," Dumbledore's spirits fell. "First off, what's wrong with, ah," the old Khajiit fished out a parchment, "Remus Lupin, Sirius Orion Black, or Frank and Alice Longbottom?"

"Well..." Dumbledore thought quickly. "First off, Remus is a werewolf. It wouldn't be safe for a baby to be in the care of one who turns into a dangerous creature every full moon, and besides werewolves are officially Dark Creatures."

Ra'jirra just grunted. "Understandable, I suppose. We get people gonged by Hircine at home too, they're never happy about it either. What about Sirius?"

"Ah – Sirius is in prison. He was caught red-handed you know, a terrible incident. He was the Secret Keeper for the Potter family's location, you see –"

"Wrong." Ra'jirra's voice was flat.

"What?"

"The portrait of James and Lily Potter informed me that the Secret Keeper was Peter Pettigrew."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "But the Aurors who captured Sirius stated quite unequivocally that when they did, he was laughing and repeating, 'I killed them'."

"Not to mention that Sirius apparently took the Godfathers' Oath. If he had, he should have dropped dead on the spot, right?"

The old man stared at the old Kahjiit, completely at a loss. That night had been a whirl. When he realised what Severus had done, and was trying to make right, he had moved with all due haste. He had raced to the Potters, explained as much as he could, time was of the essence, Sirius had offered to be Secret Keeper and...

...something else had happened. He couldn't remember; between Sirius' offer and his performing the rather draining Fidelius, there was the sense of a memory forgotten. So much had happened so fast that night.

But most importantly, if Sirius had taken the Godfathers' Oath, and broken it, not only would that be recorded in the Ministry's records, but also he _should_ have dropped dead right in front of Tom.

But he'd signed off on Sirius' conviction, he remembered that much...

"Dumbledore?" A finger gently rapped his forehead. "You all right?"

"Eh? Ah... sorry, you raise... a good point, I think... I'll see if I can check the Ministry's records to set your mind at ease," yes, that would also set his own mind easy as well. "But that will take a day or two. Now, as for the Longbottoms, they succumbed to a... terrible spell, and are basically hospitalised for life."

Ra'jirra just nodded solemnly. "Which just left these Dursley people?"

"The wife, Petunia, was Lily's sister, thus a blood relative of Harry's. It was my intention to erect wards based on that relationship to ensure Harry's safety and also that he had as normal a childhood as possible, far away from the celebrity and..."

"You know Petunia and Lily hated each other?"

"Ah, but Petunia and Harry are family, I was sure such ties would win out. After all, Harry was just a baby, and certainly not Lily."

The old Kahjiit blinked at Dumbledore in amazement. This nong... this _epic_ nong... thought that a sister who'd come to hate and fear magic because of how it effectively took her sister away... would _accept_ said sister's son?

_No wonder Akatosh had stepped in_, he thought, and his respect for Earth-2's wizards dropped further.

He made his excuses, saying he had some work waiting back in Cyrodiil, and left before he let his fists add their opinion to the conversation.

**Around lunchtime, in Black Plateau:**

"So let me get this straight," Brucellus Vito, _pilus prior_ of Black Plateau Magickal Research Centre, asked the still fuming Ra'jirra. "This Dumbledore, whose titles are apparently so heavy they've squashed his brains out of his head..."

"That's a good way of putting it," Ra'jirra glowered his khave mug.

"...Decides that due to some magic shield he knows of..."

"Wards."

"...that Harry was to be given to his mother's sister, who _hates_ his family and anything magic."

"Damn right!" Ra'jirra snagged a plate of sweetrolls and tore into one. "And yet there was a perfectly good manor house, run by a family who I'm told were really good at wards, and the evidence was right around the place. Not a stone touched, just some pretty gruesome corpses about thirty feet at the closest. But no, he had to do everything himself."

"It's wearing all those titles all the damn time," Brucellus grunted, taking a sweetroll himself, "He probably thinks he's the only one who knows best."

"Well I disabused him of _that,_ I hope." There was a glottal sound as Ra'jirra drained his mug. "Good old Black Plateau khave, crap as always."

"What's wrong with Legion khave? I drink it every day, and you don't hear me complaining."

"That's because you think hard-tack and maggoty biscuits is fine dining."

"The maggots give you protein," the ex-Legionnaire shrugged, and once again the two got into one of those stupid arguments that is less about proving one side right than blowing off steam.

**That same lunchtime, Hogwarts:**

"It was my brothers, dead certain," Ron declared. Draco had returned from the Hospital Wing after a rather vile purging session, and was rather thoroughly chewing his food and washing it down with a lot of pumpkin juice. His gullet, apparently, was still a little tender.

"How do you know?" Harry frowned at him. "Experience?"

"Yeph," Ron nodded, not a good thing to do when attempting to stuff a second mouthful into an already occupied mouth. "They're really good with potions, not that you'd know it, and the dinner table is the best place to test things. Ginny's a terror when she's pranked, so it's usually either Percy or me."

"And they always prank you?"

"They love pranks," Ron shrugged, "apparently there were these people at Hogwarts known as The Marauders, and my brothers want to be as good as them or better. Mum wants them to go into the Ministry, but they want to open up a joke shop."

Harry just looked thoughtfully at his lunch. "Can't get good without a little competition," he finally remarked, looking sideways at Draco.

"There's some truth in that," Draco said in an equally neutral tone, but his eyes said that he saw what Harry was getting at and wanted in.

"You're not thinking of pranking them back?" Hermione looked aghast. "What happens if you get caught? What if you end up hurting them? You could lose House Points! Detentions! Or –"

"May I have your attention please?" Dumbledore's voice stopped Hermione before her rant really took off. "All staff are required to attend an important meeting in the Governors' Chamber at two o'clock this afternoon. As such, all afternoon classes are cancelled. After all," he twinkled, "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!"

The other Hogwarts professors all looked at him with varying degrees of shock, Snape and McGonnagall with some annoyance. Naturally the secretive old coot couldn't have warned them this morning, could he?

* * *

This and the next-up was going to be a single chapter, but the wringle-wrangle's actually pretty drawn out. Expect internal monologues, inter-House feuding, and expressive nasal hair.


	26. Chapter 26

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

Sounds like there's a prank war in the offing between Jordan and the Weasleys on one side and Ron, Harry and Draco on the other. We'll see who loses a limb first.

If you want excitement, move along, lots of talky here.

**Anyway, in the Governors' Chamber:**

Important people need to be coddled in important-looking surroundings. As such, the Hogwarts Board of Governors had their own suitably decorated meeting room in the castle – which is to say, the very worst of good wizarding rococo and tat. Excessive amounts of gold failed to stop the traditional colours of the four Houses from all-out brawling with each other around the walls, while a very heavy Gothic oak table and equally heavy and Gothic chairs stoically ignored the visual din.

Twelve lordly wizards surveyed the staff as they arrived. Lucius Malfoy noticed that Dumbledore looked like he felt. Evidently Ra'jirra had a worse effect in repeated doses; the lunch he'd had with the irascible... Khajiit, that was it... had been bad enough.

"Right then, any old business?"

Malfoy's heart sank as the Arch-Mage strolled into the room.

"What in Merlin's name is that?" Elphias Doge demanded in surprise.

"_He_," Dumbledore replied heavily, "is the Arch-Mage Ra'jirra of the Imperial Mage's Guild. As he was with Harry Potter for the reading of his parents' will, it falls to him to read the bequest."

"Then it falls to you lot to explain why you don't want all this money," added the Arch-Mage in question, extracting a formal-looking letter from his robes, "so, shall I kick off?"

Malfoy looked around. Doge was blinking almost audibly, and he was amused to notice that Dame Longbottom's eyebrows had apparently ascended into her hat. "Ah... I take it that you should, Arch-Mage," he finally said before anyone else could.

"Righto," and he extended a claw, breaking the seal and extracting the parchment inside. Unfolding it, he frowned, and began.

"This bequest is made by the late James and Lily Evans Potter, of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter," he recited carefully, "as witnessed and recorded by Account Manager Griphook of the Goblin Nation of Gringotts, and Wills and Testaments Clerk Dammerrung of the Goblin Nation of Gringotts, as of November the twenty-first, nineteen-hundred and eighty.

"Should this declaration be false, or this bequest be adulterated or rendered null and void for any reason, then at the conclusion of this sentence, may this document and its reader turn to flame _sweet Ahnissi's dugs!_"

The assembly were treated to the sight of a middle-aged Khajiit jumping a good two feet in the air and flipping the parchment away.

"That's Gringotts for you," Doge said into the silence, and a nervous titter ran around the room. "They take forgery and false representation _very_ seriously, and nobody's ever managed to work around their magic and survive."

Ra'jirra's hair was literally standing on end, and he just gave Doge a dirty look as he bent with a grunt to pick up the decidedly not burning document.

"Lovely," he growled sarcastically, then continued.

"The estate of House Potter, therefore, gives unto Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the sum of ten million galleons, on agreement to the following binding conditions."

Malfoy sat up straight. Goblins didn't go in for extraneous words. If the conditions were binding, then rejecting even one would nullify the request completely.

"I heard Saint Mungo's get a bequest too," interrupted Balthazar Barringsly. The elderly Hufflepuff's most prominent feature was his profligate nasal hair, which he apparently thought was a fine moustache. Malfoy privately dubbed him Lord Cretinby. "Did they have to go through all this folderol too?"

Ra'jirra looked him in the nostril. "No, they're a different sort over there. Now, if you'll excuse me:

"'Condition the First: That the current fleet of school brooms, which were showing signs of age and excessive wear even when we were attending, are to be replaced with new brooms appropriate for beginners, e.g. the Cleansweep Five or Comet 260.'"

"Yes!" Madam Hooch was jubilant. "I've been telling you for _years_ Albus, our brooms are past it, do you know how many first years have told me they'll never fly again? It's all because the old things we have now..."

Dumbledore looked like he was about to object, but then took a breath. It wasn't as if they'd been told to get an entire fleet of Nimbus' finest. "Very well, I see no harm in accepting that condition, does anyone have objections?"

There was a short pause. "Sounds like that condition's accepted," Ra'jirra remarked, then a green flare added one word beneath the paragraph.

_Accepted._

The Khajiit cleared his throat nervously. "Um... 'Condition the Second: That Hogwarts management will dismiss the late Professor Cuthbert Binns, who lectures solely on the Goblin Wars and nothing else, and has failed to properly teach generations of students their history, and seek a replacement who is not only knowledgable, but able to teach the entire rich tapestry of the British Wizarding World, and respond to their students' needs, and most importantly, is alive.'"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. They may have been on the wrong side in the last fight, but he had to admit the Potters were right. Boring Binns' classes had been more about getting some sleep than actually _learning_ anything. If Hogwarts wasn't teaching anything about history, it would explain why so many Mudbloods felt their silly muggle ways were so superior...

"Knut for your thoughts, Lord Malfoy?"

Lucius blinked. "Pardon?"

"I was just saying," oh, it was Professor McGonnagall, "during my years in the Ministry, I learned that even on the Continent a Hogwarts OWL or NEWT in History was considered a joke. There were a couple of wizards who had applied for work in France, and that was the reason given."

"We can't have those bloody froggies sneering at us!" ugh, Lord Cretinby, nasal hairs bristling with indignation. "Next thing you know they'll be claiming their Baton-Bows –"

"He means Beauxbatons," Dumbledore explained to Ra'jirra.

"– is better than mighty Hogwarts! I don't know about you but I say we accept this!" He huffed, hairs momentarily forming twin cones of indignation.

"Not to mention the Colonies, or those louts in the Pacific," Malfoy mused. Like most European wizards of refinement, he had nothing but scorn for what he saw as the 'disrespectful' wizarding societies of the United States or Australasia. Also like most European wizards of refinement, it never occurred to him that such scorn might be well-earned.

Ra'jirra blinked at Malfoy's voice and snapped out of his mesmerised study of Barringsly's nose hair. "Sounds like an acceptance to me," he grunted, "Besides, there's plenty of galleons to go around. All in favour?"

All were. Another flare of green spelled out _Accepted._

"Right then. 'Condition the Third: That efforts will be made to provide support staff of a suitable level of competence for all Professors, so that the burden of teaching and evaluating no less than fourteen classes a week will be lessened, as well as assisting and tutoring individual students as required, such that the Professors can focus on not only the high-level operations of their respective Faculty, but also invest themselves and any students they deem suitable as research assistants into researching further discoveries currently hidden in the depths of Magic.'"

"Staff?" Snape had perked up. "As in, someone _else_ can waste their time with cauldron-burning dunderheads?"

"That's probably not a bad idea," Ra'jirra said thoughtfully. "Back home, we have a tier system of tenured professors and advanced students who give lectures to their juniors. 'The finest learning experience is to teach.' _Wisdom of Julianos, _chapter fourteen, verse six. Of course you'd need to be dead certain that a) they know their chops, and b)," gold eyes locked with dark ones, "they can teach properly and fairly."

Snape just nodded. Of _course_ the brat would have ratted about him. No matter. He'd make sure to pay him back before handing the first years to some other wretch. Assuming anyone existed who could teach to his standards.

"Also," Augusta added, "With You-Know-Who gone, there's likely to be an increase in class sizes. Which means more strain on the Professors, so why not prepare now?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. The notion of currently empty classrooms being filled with life appealed to him.

"Not to mention that for now, Hogwarts' current students will receive a level of assistance and teaching to put other schools to shame," squeaked the tiny Charms professor – what was his name? Oh yes, Ra'jirra remembered. Flitwick.

"There's a saying among businessmen where I come from," Ra'jirra remarked, "You have to spend money first in order to make it. Same here. Jack up the standard of a Hogwarts education to new heights and people are going to take notice. Might even start thinking of sending their children over instead of going locally."

"B-b-buut-t-t-t," Professor Quirrell sat at the end of the table with a little extra space between him and Snape, his turban reeking of spoiled garlic. "W-w-what ab-b-bout th-th-the ish-sh-sh-sh-sue of..."

"Those Death Eater dorks?" Ra'jirra's nose wrinkled. He could smell something else decaying from the man, but couldn't identify it. Something to do with trying not to throw up from the overpowering garlic haze. "You've got magic oaths and things. One or two of those ought to do it."

Quirrell's mouth worked, but all that came out was drool. Behind his eyes, malevolence fumed. Naturally his host would have to select suitable staff, but with a magical oath, that would be disastrous! The _last_ thing he needed was a student body of mostly Mud people who could defend themselves...

While Quirrell drooled and silently suffered the displeasure of his Master, another flare of green appeared on the document. Dumbledore felt proud of James and Lily. The way that they had worded the conditions of the bequest made it all but impossible for the staff or the Board members to reject them, playing as they did on national and scholastic pride.

"'Condition the Fourth, Part the First:'" Ra'jirra frowned as he looked the document over, then put it down. "This'll get you screaming I expect," he editorialised, then resumed: "'That the Class known as Muggle Studies is made a compulsory subject, and to be taught from a curriculum that is drawn from contemporary Muggle life, as opposed to a book last updated in 1950 and published in 1902. Nigh on thirty years have passed, and wizards must know how to blend in with Muggles today, as opposed to those of a century ago.'"

There was a brief silence. "But what's wrong with the curriculum?" Professor Burbage demanded. "Muggles still use those auto-cars to travel around, they light their houses with that electricity stuff –-"

"Stupid nonsense," Malfoy let Cretinby voice their shared opinion. "What's wrong with candles? Or proper parchment and quill? I tell you," he warmed to his oration, "this ekeltrickity is just a silly fad –"

"Wrong." Ra'jirra's voice was flat. "_Electricity,_" he carefully enunciated the word, "is used for more than lighting. It powers their communications devices like the radio and television, their household appliances like vacuum cleaners and ovens..."

"What's a vacant cleaner?"

Ra'jirra looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Take a hose," he began, "Put a fine-mesh bag on one end, in front of an electric motor powering a fan. Turn it on, and the fan sucks air up the hose into the bag – along with any loose dust, dirt, cobwebs and so on. No sweeping required."

"Sounds silly," Cretinby huffed.

"But it works," Ra'jirra retorted, "That's the thing. The Mundanes of this planet are always innovating, finding better ways to do things. As far as I know, nobody uses gas for anything but cooking, if that. But we're getting sidetracked.

"What you don't know _can_ kill you." The old Khajiit leaned back in his chair, arms folded belligerently. "While you're all running around like the last three hundred years haven't happened, the Mundanes are doing all sorts of amazing things – and I'll bet my last septim that one day they'll find out about your world and there'll be nothing you can do about it."

"That's what Obliviators are for!" Cretinby wasn't buying.

"What're Obliviators?"

"They obliviate Muggles who discover us," Cretinby looked smug. "Can't be revealed if nobody remembers anything."

"How many people can they violate?" Ra'jirra's colour was rising. "A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? A million? You don't have any fucking clue how fast news can travel in the Mundane world now. If Voldemort were to attack some big event, the news would be all over the world before your Obliviator cretins could show up!"

"That's impossible!" Lucius sighed quietly as Cretinby, nose hairs quivering with righteous indignation, warmed to his subject. "If they could discover us they'd have done so by now!"

"Just because they haven't doesn't mean they won't," Ra'jirra retorted, "But _unless_ you know what they're capable of _right now,_ you're standing within bowshot with your breeches down and your balls swinging free. And that means having _accurate_ and _up to date _knowledge about how Mundanes live today and what that means and promises for you!"

Malfoy and Longbottom both desperately tried to keep their faces straight against the vision of a dozen respectable wizards and witches with their trousers down. Malfoy had it easier. _Means and promises for us? _He wondered why the Arch-Mage had put it that way. He almost missed the terrible old cat clearing his throat.

"Condition the Fourth, Part the Second:" Ra'jirra continued, "That the course known as Magical Studies, which is intended to introduce the customs, culture and heritage of the Wizarding World to those students raised outside it, be reinstated as a compulsory subject, with Professor and staff as per Condition the Third."

Silence fell. Malfoy thought about whether or not to endorse it. Dumbledore _had_ been cagey about his reasons for removing it from the curriculum. "I would accept that," he said slowly at last.

"Of course you would," Doge sneered.

"Now, Elphias," Lucius went on smoothly, "Should not the..."

Ra'jirra's eye twitched at him.

"...Those students brought up in ignorance, have explained to them our fine and long-standing traditions? You'll remember I have raised this issue before, Headmaster." He blinked. "And with Lord Potter coming into his inheritance, shouldn't he know what that means for him and others?"

Ra'jirra wondered briefly if Dumbledore started nodding first, or Dame Longbottom, then decided it was one of those mystic coincidence things. Synchronicities.

"It would seem to be a sensible reinstatement," the Headmaster was starting to feel as though Malfoy _and_ the dead Potters were ganging up on him. During the war he'd been unable to fill the position, since either applicants were Death Eaters or their supporters, or were killed before he could interview them, probably for holding the view that Muggleborns had a place in the Wizarding World. After a while, he'd stopped, deciding that it was better to not aggravate the Dark families, and as far as he knew, the Muggleborns were doing fine, weren't they?

But with Harry now _Lord_ Potter, such a class would actually... yes, it would be the perfect way to sway Harry's loyalties to his home world!

"Harry tells me," Ra'jirra broke into his reverie, "that Draco is becoming renowned as an expert in Wizarding Culture."

That settled it. "I approve the condition," the old wizard said at last. _There's no telling what lies Malfoy's son might put in Harry's head!_

"And I second that," Malfoy spoke up. _So Draco is setting his fellow pupils right about their place in the world? Excellent boy._

As there seemed to be no overt or (in the case of Quirrel) coherent objection, a fourth green flash was added to the fate of Hogwarts, followed by the parchment glowing a vibrant silver.

"Now, if I'm right, that means all the conditions have been accepted, and that the funds are transferred to the Hogwarts account," Ra'jirra stared at the document as though expecting it to explode. "Which also means that," he added, trying to remember what the painted James had told him, "if anyone tries to worm out from under, they'll find a bunch of pissed-off goblins standing on their head asking for that money back with interest."

"That sounds like goblins all right," Longbottom and her hat nodded, "you seem to have done your research."

"Ah... to be frank, I got the impression that James Potter had an experience like that when he was younger. Then Lily smacks him round the ear and states that she helped him avoud going down that road..." the Khajiit trailed off and aimed yet another glare at Snape. The Potions Master merely shoved the smug look off his face and returned a raised eyebrow. _So __the high and mighty __Potter __family __was in trouble with the goblins? No wonder there's hardly anything left of the great Potter fortune. No doubt his brat will __follow in his footsteps. Typical Gryffindor._

"Anyway," Ra'jirra looked thoughtfully at a window, "I'd spend the rest of the school year sorting out what you all are looking for in staff, where their offices can go, stuff like that, before ploughing through letters of application and interviewing the hopefuls and hopeless. It'll take a while and besides, you've all got this year's curriculum under way already."

There were a great many nods and sounds of assent to Ra'jirra's wisdom. "To change at such short notice would not be wise," Dumbledore agreed, and then blinked as the old Khajiit rose to his feet.

"Well, if there's nothing else I'm needed for, I'll be off," he declared, "It's about a week to get to Chorrol, assuming I'm not a grandfather by then."

"A grandfather?" Malfoy blinked in surprise.

"Yeah, my son and his wife are expecting – she's due any day now I think. Hard to believe just two years ago he and Zahana were courting. At least, that's what they _said_ they were doing in that haywain..."

Augusta coughed. "Be that as it may," she declared quickly, to Malfoy's amusement, "we certainly shouldn't keep you from greeting your grandchild into the world."

Dumbledore rose, extracted a violently puce and chartreuse handkerchief, and transfigured it into a somewhat outsized teddy bear, complete with pointed hat, Hogwarts badge, and a long red and gold scarf. Malfoy and Snape exchanged rolling eyes at the inevitable Gryffindor colours.

"For your grandchild," the Headmaster explained, offering the toy, "every boy and girl deserves a cuddly friend." His eyes twinkled as he said that, and Ra'jirra just looked at him as he rose from his seat and took the big bear.

"Well," he shrugged, "don't expect me to waltz back here for about a month, since like I said it's a week's ride between here and civilisation, I want a week to spend spoiling J'dargo and Zahana's offspring rotten, and then I'll probably have to run around fighting fires and answering dumb questions from the Arcane University and Imperial Council. Dunard Geonette's in charge of this side of the portal if you've any questions or ask Harry and his snake to send me a letter. Right – I'd better get a move on. S'jirra'd never forgive me if I was late for the birth."

This won a surge of laughter, a snort from Barringsly's nose hair, and numerous well-wishes as the Arch-Mage headed out the door and off to the Shrieking Shack – Snape's voice naturally absent.

The talk turned to discussion, then squabbling, over the nature of what sort of staff each professor should have, what they should be paid, and numerous other details, but Malfoy only lent half an ear. The other one and a half were still hearing Ra'jirra's voice making those queer statements.

_What the... Muggles... mean and promise._

_What you don't know... about the Muggles?... _can_ kill you._

The frown that was all that he allowed himself to show was taken as concern over deputy teachers requiring at least an EE in their NEWT scores.

_What does _he_ know about them that we don't?_

* * *

AN: I've been over this chapter about five times, and I think it does what it must. Even though a chunk was written in the wee hours two weeks back, in the feverish grip of a particularly vile cold that has turned my body fluids into something resembling shoggoth sperm.

Now perhaps we can leave off the worldbuilding and have some fun with Harry.


	27. Chapter 27

**For those who came in late:**

Harry is now _Lord_ Potter, and change is coming to Hogwarts since they need that ten million galleons. However, more important matters are afoot.

**At the Gryffindor table, a fortnight later:**

Lee Jordan, Fred, and George Weasley solemnly regarded each other's green-skinned, silver-haired, and tusked visages over the breakfast table.

"Gred, my good man –"

"It would seem to me that –"

"Someone has attempted to prank us."

"And they seem to have done quite well," Lee added, looking thoughtfully towards where Potter and Malfoy were addressing their plates. Ron as usual was living up to his middle name, Bilius.

"And why do you look – Potterward, oh good brother-in-jests? – Forge, it seems to me – that Lee has suspicions – As to who did it?"

Lee just nodded. "The tusks are a right giveaway," he said slowly.

"If that is the case – of course, you realise –"

"This means _war_," Lee finished ominously.

Malfoy glanced at the trio of ersatz Orisimer huddled down the table. "I still think the tusks were a giveaway," he observed.

"Too bad," Harry shrugged, "but at least they'll focus on us and not anyone else."

"I reckon they look better that way," Ron observed, while several nearby students turned green. Attempting to speak with your mouth full _and_ stuffing more in never ends well.

"Anything would look better than you at the table," Hermione retorted in disgust.

"What's wrong with my table manners?"

"I'll draw up a list later."

"S-speaking of lists," Neville interjected, "Gran's owled me her notes on who's who in the Wizengamot, Lord Potter, so we'll study those tonight after dinner."

Harry groaned. "Do I _need_ to know all that crap?" he asked for about the hundredth time.

"Of course you do," Draco grinned for about the hundredth time, "after all, you'll be Lord Potter when you reach majority –"

"And Head of an Ancient and Noble House," Neville added with a matching grin. Harry just groaned.

"And as such, one should know how to comport oneself," Draco continued.

"With manner and knowledge befitting that status," Neville concluded.

Harry just groaned again and bumped his head on the table.

"You two are getting as bad as my brothers," Ron observed, so horrified he'd actually stopped eating.

The two boys looked at each other in feigned surprise. True, a month ago they wouldn't have been able to imagine that they would be working together, but for some reason it felt right. "Nonsense," Neville declared, "w-we're Lords in training."

"Will you _please_ drop it?" Harry moaned in an un-Lordly fashion.

Dumbledore watched them, eyes twinkling with amusement. He couldn't believe the apparent change in young Malfoy, and he was certain that this could only mean redemption for that traditionally Dark House.

Snape also watched with more malicious amusement. His godson had found a way to make _Potter_ miserable without losing House Points, and that was just fine with him.

**In a small house in Chorrol, about the same time:**

Ra'jirra smiled down at a very small and currently very important person he was holding. The newborn Khajiit yawned, then resumed staring at him with that blank look all babies are equipped with, the one that you can't tell if they're aware of you or just looking at the big thing in front of them.

"This one still thinks Kisimba a fine name," S'jirra said from where she was fussing over a recuperating Zahana. Her mate and herself had arrived in Chorrol just in time to assist with the birth. S'jirra had helped the midwife and her daughter-in-law bring her kit into the world. Ra'jirra had helped by keeping his son occupied; namely, by 'wetting the baby's head' at The Grey Mare – with enough ale to drown the poor mite.

"Indeed? This one prreferrs Rrishima, but suspects one's mate desirres Abhuki still," Zahana responded, her voice, as redolent with the Elsweyr burr as S'jirra's, dropping quietly toward the end. "So do we desirre to honourr ourr ancestorrs."

Ra'jirra looked up. J'Dargo's wife had turned her head to the wall, her long mane obscuring her face. He thought of how so many had lost loved ones during the Oblivion crisis.

It was like someone had cast Starlight over his head.

"How about Abhima?" The two women looked at him. "Go halves and remember both of them. What do you think?" He asked his granddaughter, lifting her up to his face, "How do you like the sound of Abhima?" He pressed his lips to her belly and repeated the name, drawing out the _b_ sound into a farting one and making her giggle. "A_bbb_hima! You like that don't you? A_bbb_him –"

Baby biology is a peculiar thing, and can react oddly to certain stimuli, such as vibration. That would explain the terrible look that crossed the old Khajiit's face, and why his wife and daughter-in-law gasped, before being incapacitated with laughter. For reasons of hygiene, let us leave it at that.

**At roughly the same time:**

Dunard Geonette looked every inch like a diplomat should; worldly, well-dressed in the sort of dark, gold-trimmed outfit favoured by the well-to-do businessman, silvering hair and beard. Despite this, he was actually a Magician of the Guild, and currently Steward of the Guild's base in Shrieking Shack, referred to increasingly seriously as the Embassy of Cyrodiil.

He was also currently frowning over a typewritten letter on plain paper, embossed with a very important crest, freshly extracted from a brown envelope of cleverly folded paper bearing the letters O.H.M.S. on it.

The pigeon that had borne it glared at the Breton with one red eye and actually started tapping one foot, waiting for a reply.

He had wondered when this would happen. Dunard sighed, then drew pen and paper to him and began to write.

* * *

A/N: I have a thousand words written on an exchange between Margaret Thatcher and the then-PM John Major already. It was going to happen eventually.


	28. Chapter 28

**For those who came in late:**

As Bobmin356 once wrote, "Ignore the muggle world at your peril". Also, Wardhead Wood is a little close to muggles for comfort, but the name fit. And finally, this is what happens to authors who write without a net. 'Rod for your own back', anyone?

**One month later in Scotland:**

Being a government driver had its ups and downs, and Neil (probably not his real name) wasn't sure what this was.

Yesterday, he'd been assigned to convey Margaret Thatcher to Dufftown, where they'd spent the night, before being given instructions to drive her at dawn to this spot off the A941 near Wardhead Wood, and wait. Visions of cars with darkened windows and secretive-looking briefcases changing hands filled his head. He hadn't known that the Iron Lady was into cloak and dagger stuff.

About an hour after they'd stopped, a pair of figures emerged from the trees. At first neither Neil nor Thatcher paid them any attention, even as they came close enough to see; then they stepped over an invisible line. Both the driver and the Leader of the Conservative Party stared. It wasn't often you saw a Khajiit in a suit and tie.

The other figure was adorned in teal robes, and was clearly human; once Thatcher recovered from her surprise, she assumed (correctly) that it was the same Dunard Geonette who had corresponded with them about the upcoming meeting. She signalled to Neil and got out of the car.

"Archmage Ra'jirra, I presume?" she asked, looking at his silver-furred visage directly.

"You presume right," he responded, "which is more than I can say for Fudge's pet toad." He gestured to the gentleman accompanying him. "This is Dunard Geonette, who's been ably stewarding our base here, so we stuffed him into his guild bags –"

Dunard shot Ra'jirra a look.

"– for the occasion. I understand we've got quite a journey ahead of us?" He looked at the car. It was a dark-hued Range Rover with tinted windows; the sort that any stockbroker would ostentatiously display, preferably caked in mud, in their driveway.

"Quite," she nodded, "I am Margaret Thatcher, ex-Prime Minister, Leader of the Conservative Party, and more importantly I now head Department W in MI5, but we can discuss this on the road. Shall we?"

"Right," Ra'jirra's curiosity was pricked. "You all right to get back Dunard?"

"If I don't trip over myself," the Breton replied a little stiffly. He did give the Mage's Guild bow first before he hitched his robes and started back across the wards.

"Right," Ra'jirra said again, approaching the car with interest. Neil took his cue and opened the other rear door for him. His confidentiality agreement wasn't needed. _Nobody_ would believe he had an – an – an _alien_ on board.

**En route to London:**

"So as Prime Minister, you've met Fudge then?" Ra'jirra asked. His eyes roved around the interior of the Range Rover, lingering on the way Neil worked the controls, the passing scenery outside. There was no crushing sensation, no hook in the guts, and no wild spinning. Yes, Ra'jirra decided, he _liked_ the motor car.

"Three times, as a matter of fact," Thatcher's expression hardened. "All three times, I was given hardly any notice before not just Fudge, but his toad... ...y Umbridge, Dumbledore, and other clowns came tumbling out of the fireplace."

Ra'jirra raised his eyebrow at the term 'clowns'.

"The first time was shortly after I was sworn in as Prime Minister in 1979. All they had to say then was that magic is real, that there is a shadow government as per the International Statute of Secrecy, and leave us alone, there's a good Muggle.

"Then in early November 1981, I was visited again, and _that_ was when I learned that there had been a virtual civil war going on under our noses, with non-magical people being caught up in it, and they had _never _thought to tell us! Instead, they waited until something happened, and claimed that this 'Dark Lord' had been defeated by a one year old child." She breathed deeply, trying to keep her emotions under control. She had a number of things to say about British Wizardry, and a few didn't even involve foul language.

"And number three a few days later: 'Help help, we've lost the Boy-Who-Lived!'" Ra'jirra guessed. Thatcher nodded, smiling slightly.

"Quite correct. After that, I made some enquiries, and learned that officially, our _governments_ keep in contact via the Muggle Liason Office. But in reality, all they do is leave us in the dark as much as possible... even when looking at CASE AVALON BLACK."

"Which is something to do with Department W of MI5."

"You're very quick, Arch-Mage. After those visits, it became clear that we needed a better source of information that actually _did_ inform. So I arranged for additional funds to Department W to develop a network of informants, and also to get the official word on certain events."

From her worryingly heavy briefcase she extracted a folder stamped with suitably ominous legends and the words PAX LEO NARNIA. Opening it, the first thing Ra'jirra saw was a wizarding photograph of himself, clipped from the _Daily Prophet_. Every ten seconds, he slapped a wand aside and threw a punch in the face of a dandy the caption identified as 'the renowned Gilderoy Lockhart, author of _Holidays with Hags, Year with the Yeti, Voyages with Vampires,_ and many other works of his adventures, as well as five times winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award.'

"Once we had a better picture of the state of the Wizarding World, our department developed a set of scenarios for CASE AVALON, when it can hide no longer."

"How long before that happens? Twenty years? Ten?"

Thatcher smiled faintly. "Frankly, we're hoping for a little more than that. Obviously the scenarios are colour coded, white for best case and black for worst. Currently we're braced for CASE AVALON YELLOW, which is..." she waved a hand. "...very much in the middle."

"If it was black, you'd be calling in the troops and taking over right?"

"Exactly, and it would be disastrous, with magic exposed in the worst possible light. How much do you know about the Ministry and the Wizengamot?"

"Not much. I know the Wizengamot's a sort of council of noble families or something like that, and the Ministry runs the day-to-day affairs, taxation, law enforcement, stuff like that."

Thatcher looked down at her briefcase. "That can wait until we return to Number 10 and discuss this and more importantly, you and your realm." She smiled. "Speaking of which, I understand you're a grandfather now?"

Ra'jirra relaxed. "To a darling little girl," he declared, "who I fully intend to spoil as much as possible. A gorgeous little Suthay-Raht – I'm Cathay-Raht myself. She'll probably be climbing all over everything she can before she learns to walk..."

"Sorry? I thought you were a... Khajiit?"

"It's the influence of the moons when we're born... ah, it's a bit tricky to explain. Anyway, I suggested Abhima as a name, and I think my granddaughter liked it, when I suggested it to her she couldn't contain herself..."

**All well and good, now what's all this at No. 10?**

Pedro watched the Range Rover enter Downing Street. There was quite a phalanx of Secret Service men waiting for it, making a wall of dark suits between the door and whoever was inside. With that lot, whoever was visiting the PM was Very Important Indeed, and thus a shot of what was undoubtedly supposed to be a secret meeting would be Very Lucrative Indeed.

The vehicle had tinted windows, but Pedro had a very good flash on his camera, and he knew the settings that would let him get a good shot from right up against the window. As the car stopped, Pedro made his move, along with several other paparazzi, and the suits countermoved just late enough. The flash went off, and so did Pedro before the bastards could get their hands on his film.

Later that night, Pedro glowered over his fifth drink at the developed image. It was a joke. It had to be. There was no _way_ that the Iron Lady would be riding with a... what were they called... furries? But then who would consider wearing a mask like that... more to the point, who would _buy_ the fucking thing?

**Inside No. 10 that afternoon:**

It had started quite well. After introductions were made, tea was served, and the Rt. Hon. John Major was pleased to learn that the Arch-Mage Ra'jirra was as jaundiced about Magical Britain as he and Margaret were.

"From what I can tell," the decidedly leonine chap had summarised, "your wizards believe ignorance really _is_ bliss for both sides. The Ministry's stuffed with idiots who got their positions because of their bloodline or their money or both. The Wizengamot is basically trial by nobles for both laws and people alike, which means nobody who can wants to change anything, and those who do can't. And the whole shebang is in the thrall of Albus Dumbledore, who frankly strikes me as overstretched and out of touch."

Then they had got down to business: finding out what Tamriel was actually like, and whether Earth in general, and Britain in particular, had anything to fear.

When Major mentioned Tamriel, Ra'jirra had been surprised, and when Major extracted his son's game, the Khajiit had nearly fainted.

The game was stored in a cardboard box decorated to look like some fantasy tome. On the lid, an inset image showed an elf wielding magic, a man in armour with a sword, and what the artist supposed to be an Orisimer and a Khajiit. All were facing off against a dragon sitting on enough riches to overflow the Imperial Treasury's coffers ten times over. Emblazoned over all this was the legend _THE ELDER SCROLLS;_ underneath the subtitle _Adventure Awaits in the Land of Tamriel!_

"What in the name of Arkay, Stendarr, Mara and Zenithar is this?" the old Khajiit had asked in shaky tones.

"This is what we call a role-playing game," Major explained, taking the lid off and extracting several books bound in the Earth style, along with other papers and several oddly-shaped dice. "It was released by Bethesda Gameworks about five years ago, and describes a world called Tamriel, governed by an empire spanning the provinces of..." he pulled out a cloth map the creators meant as a keepsake. "Cyrodiil, Hammerfell, Morrowind, Skyrim, Valen... Arch-mage? Are you all right?"

Quick thinking and some smelling salts had brought the oldster back to his senses.

"I'm fine," Ra'jirra muttered, "That map's too right. I mean, that mountain's really between Whiterun and Riften, and the road from Skingrad doesn't go straight to Bravil, but... it's too right. How could they know?"

Both politicians looked helplessly at him.

"Well," he began with a long breath to steady himself, sneaking glances at the impossible box, "everyone is magical. They can access and use their magicka, I mean. You need to be taught in order to do the more clever stuff, that's why the Mage's Guild was formed, and I was responsible for setting up Black Plateau Magickal Research Facility..."

Ra'jirra forced himself to stop rambling, then got down to brass tacks.

"Anyway, in recent history, the Imperial Family died out about twenty years ago," he resumed at last. "All but one were assassinated, and the last sacrificed himself to close the jaws of Oblivion, which damn near swallowed us all. Daedra invaded just about everywhere, doubly so in Cyrodiil. I think they were looking for Emperor Martin. Or Saint Martin of Akatosh to some people. If you don't mind, I'll skip the gory details for now."

"That's fine," Major nodded.

"Sounds ominous though," Thatcher frowned, jotting something on a notepad she had extracted.

"Chancellor Ocato got sworn in as Potentate two years ago to try and hold the Empire together – he wasn't happy about it, but we needed a leader because we have two big problems.

"Problem one is the ongoing war between Morrowind and Black Marsh. With the fall of the Tribunal religion, two of the Great Houses there fell on hard times, doubly so when King Helseth brought the Dunmer into modern times and outlawed slavery. Black Marsh wasn't as badly affected by the Oblivion Crisis – I reckon they all sank in that swamp – so there were a lot of Argonians itching for a fight and remembering the Dunmeri's slaving ways quite well. So there's been a three-way stoush with Helseth and us trying to restore order, the forces of Black Marsh looking for a little ancestral vengeance, and the other Great Houses trying to grab the remnants of Indoril and Dres." He absently licked a hand and groomed his ear. "It's a gods-awful mess.

"Problem two is a pack of racist wankers in the Summurset Isles called the Thalmor. The Altmer monarchy took a big hit when the daedra toppled the Crystal Tower during the Oblivion Crisis, because it was holding most of the refugees and the royal family, and the Thalmor are the most dangerous of the syndicates trying for a coup. Probably because they kill anyone who either opposes them, or isn't an Altmer, or both. The Empire's pledged support to the monarchy, so our troops are stretched thin.

"And as such," Ra'jirra concluded, "the other provinces are starting to ask why they bother belonging to an Empire with no Emperor, sending their lads to fight in other people's wars when there's still the odd daedra running around and rebuilding to be done. We've basically got a war on two fronts, and the last thing we need is a third."

Major didn't miss the inference. Tamriel might be able to _reach_ Earth, but they couldn't present any real threat. Yet.

"Now, about twelve years ago, a spell went strange and opened a portal to another world." He quickly sketched a picture of the post-apocalyptic Earth he had accompanied Doctor Earnest Haines across on his quest. "It was, and I swear to Julianos I do not lie, a complete fluke.

"Then after that we find a baby boy on our doorstep with footprints coming from Zenithar's wayshrine and disappearing. We're less concerned with the why than that the babe needed succor, so we took him in."

"Lord Potter," Thatcher surmised.

"Yep. Then a few months back we start getting these letters appearing out of nowhere. Harry was starting to get scared about the time he went to the jakes and –"

"They _didn't!_" Thatcher gasped and Major just blinked.

"They did. Poor kit had to use the chamber-pot or a bush for weeks afterwards. So we applied what we'd learned to the letters as they arrived, and crafted a portal spell that backtracked to where the letters were coming from, namely Hogwarts."

"Anyway, we're here, and Harry's learned about his inheritance, and we'd be in your debt for any technology or advice or any other aid you can offer us."

As soon as he finished, the old Khajiit looked like he could have bitten his tongue. Evidently a diplomat he wasn't.

He realised that the two were looking at him oddly. "Forgive us," Major said carefully, "but we have our own, ah, problems to handle. Also, what makes you think that we can help you, let alone profit from it?"

Ra'jirra absently groomed himself again as he collected his thoughts. "There was a wizard who jumped Harry and me on the way to Gringotts when I took him to the will reading. Your Aurors, I mean _their_ Aurors, decided to shout first and bind later. He was already shooting, so I plugged him in the shoulder with Ern – ah, Dr Haines' old laser pistol."

"Laser? You mean, an actual, working laser pistol?" Both politicians perked up at that. This was something the MoD would be interested in.

"That's right," Ra'jirra nodded, "The people of Earth-1 knew their onions when it came to throwing atomic energy around. The nearest we can get to it is shock magics, but they're not as precise or efficient, and we still don't have the nous to work out how to emulate them. So far, we have managed to build a single steam engine and railway, not to mention a telegraph line, but that's only between Bruma and Cheydinhal.

"Our problems are," _now, what did that scholar say... oh yeah,_ "Transport, communications and firepower. We need faster transportation of people and cargo around the Empire, quicker communications, and superior weaponry, since a lot of troops were killed in the Oblivion Crisis, and with those two problems we have, we're stretched. In the time it takes a message to get to the general staff, any orders they give are probably twice out of date. And someone's most likely set up an ambush on the way back.

"Earth weapons have better range, faster firing rates, and do more damage – normal and energy weapons alike. But we just don't have the skill or tools to make them or their ammunition. And as I said, we're trying to work out how to do so from first principles, _and _about half-a-dozen copies of _The Big Book of Science_ which are destroyed in different places."

Ra'jirra thought for a bit. "And I think we really could use our own radio station," he murmured thoughtfully, "but the Institute's still debating that."

"Sorry?" Thatcher's interest was piqued. "What institute?"

"Eh? Oh, the Institute for Technological Philosophy. After I came back from Earth-1 bearing wonders, it didn't take long for the Council to realise that just adopting all these new things at once would cause problems. Basically it's a forum for discussing whether or not some gadget's a good idea yet, and if not, whether it ever will be. Otherwise you'd have yokels trying to work atomic piles or something."

"That's all well and good," Major said carefully, "but suppose we _do_ provide you with scientific and... military... support... what is there to stop you from, ah, turning on us? After all, you have the ability to open, ah, portals to Earth; I can envision a scenario where portals open up everywhere and troops come pouring out."

"What's there to stop us? Quite a bit," Ra'jirra seemed to relax slightly. Evidently he preferred to talk shop. "First off, we've tried experiments to enlarge the portals, but nothing works. They get unstable real quick and we still don't know what happened to the poor buggers who tried to walk through one last time." He shuddered. "Guess they were lucky.

"Second, the first portal to Earth-1 was a fluke and didn't last long enough for me to get back. The second, more stable one I had to open _from_ Earth-1; between my getting stranded and Big Town, the lads at Black Plateau tried tons of times, almost got killed by things, before they found me. And it was about the size of a manhole too.

"With Harry, we had to wait for enough of those letters to pelt him before our mystics could work out how to adjust the spells to... to follow their spoor back, I think that's the best way to explain it. And note: _spells,_ plural. The invocation is bloody complex as well and takes a while, so one of your lads would have plenty of time to shoot.

"Thirdly..." Ra'jirra straightened and looked solemn. "There's plenty of evidence to suggest the gods are involved. Frankly, I suspect that Earth-1's gods, or God," he shrugged, "had a little confab with the Nine and they jiggered things to send me through. And, when Harry arrived, the only tracks we could find were a woman's, coming straight from Zenithar's wayshrine to the inn door, where they just stopped dead. No walking away, nothing. If Akatosh at least isn't involved I'll eat my shoes.

"Finally." Now he knew it was time for the king-hit. "My son's here, and I want him to form a better opinion of his home realm than I have. Which might be a little difficult if my guess is right, and you two are _not_ willing to wait for one of these CASE AVALON scenes to arise.

"You're preparing to _force_ one, aren't you?"

* * *

A/N: In Earth-2, the Bethesda we all know and love was formed well before the internet became public knowledge (I never heard of it before about 1995) and as such would have used existing role-playing technology: the good ol' dice-and-paper RPG. The copy of _Dragon_ Dumbledore was looking over in chapter 3 was roughly five years old.

This scene has in fact been fermenting for months. It makes sense that the British Government would not only remember the magicals, but over time it would be easier to track them; and naturally they wouldn't rely on official channels either. And it occurred to me that the 'Iron Lady' would _not_ be happy with their cavalier ways. At all.

I'll finish it off next update. Happy holidays.


	29. Chapter 29

**For those who came in late:**

Ra'jirra has a darling little granddaughter, he's back on Earth-2 to catch up on what's what, and now he's bearding the British government in its lair before the magical world is.

**Speaking of which, in No. 10 Downing:**

"You're right," Margaret Thatcher admitted.

Two sets of eyebrows went up. John Major's rose because he had no idea until now that anyone was doing more than working out contingency plans – CASE AVALON – for the inevitable revelation of the wizarding world. He knew the United States had their own drawn up, and he suspected that other countries did as well, but it was the general consensus that Great Britain would be the most likely place it would happen.

Ra'jirra's went up, followed by a shrug, because he'd been expecting that. He hadn't expected such candidness.

"The current state of British Wizardry is such that, left to its own devices, we're looking at CASE AVALON YELLOW or ORANGE at the moment – but over time, the cultural divide is only going to get worse. There's actually a lot of unrest among muggleborns over how they're treated as second class citizens, and for all we know that could lead to open revolt – that would be CASE AVALON RED by the way."

"And you want to stop that before it starts," was Ra'jirra's intelligent surmise.

"Exactly. However, our contacts in the Ministry aren't very influential – hardly anyone cares about the opinions of clerks – and those with any influence are either hard to reach, or under the influence of, ah, 'blood purity' doctrine or Albus Dumbledore."

"And from what he told me some time ago, he likes things just as they are," Ra'jirra mused, eyes wandering among the portraits on the office walls. "Thing is, from what I gathered about recent history," his voice became reflective, "he's spent a lot of his life fending off bad bastards who wanted to put themselves in charge now matter how much damage they did. There was Grimblewall who set off World War Two –"

"Grindlewald," Thatcher corrected with a smile, "Interestingly, he was one of Dumbledore's fellow students at Hogwarts."

"Really?" Ra'jirra blinked in surprise. "He didn't mention it I think... and then there's bloody Voldemort. And from the sound of things... I think he was getting the upper hand.

"And right now, there's..." the old Khajiit trailed off, looking at nothing, his expression suggesting furious cogitation. The two politicians looked at him, waiting not particularly patiently.

"You said cultural divide," he came back to reality at last, "and _that_ is what's causing the problem. You need to bridge it, or fill it in completely, but I think Dumbledore's as scared of you mundanes as any other wizard and just wants things to remain the same, so he'll fight or slow you down as much as he can. The wossnames – pureblood lot – won't want to have a bar of you, so they'll oppose as well. And in the meantime, the ground's nicely tilled for another crop of dark lords. Well – if we can help, we will."

"You will?" Both Thatcher and Major sat up that that.

"Yep. Actually, we have to. Harry's still a citizen of the Empire, and my adopted son, so I'm honour bound at least to help and protect him as much as I can. Mind you, what with Morrowind and those Thalmor," he spat the word like a hairball, "we might be a bit stretched."

"There is also the issue of Earth, er, Earth-1, as you put it," Major changed topic tactfully. "I think the United States would be interested in access there."

"Why am I not surprised," Ra'jirra began drily, "Mind you that opens a whole new bag of puzzles. For one thing –"

Ra'jirra stopped dead for the same reason both Major and Thatcher were. A house elf had popped in and was plucking at Ra'jirra's trouser leg.

"Begging pardons Master Arch-Mage Rajerry sir," the bat-eared little brown creature said, "but Lord Malfoy sir is awake and asking for yous before Lady Malfoy and the healer come back."

Ra'jirra blinked at the elf, then at the two people he'd been brought to see, who blinked back, then they all looked at the house elf and blinked, then blinked at each other again. The house elf also blinked, but nobody noticed.

"So that's a house elf," Major murmured, "I remember hearing about them from one of your briefings, Margaret."

"Perhaps," Thatcher said thoughtfully, "we can resume this discussion at some other time. From the sound of things it might be a good idea to see what he wants now." She dug into her briefcase again and handed the old Khajiit a business card. "Here's how you can reach us."

Ra'jirra put the card into one of his suit's small but convenient pockets. "All right then," he shrugged, "We'll meet again. Now," he stood and directed to the elf, "take me to Malfoy."

With a slightly louder pop, the two nonhumans vanished. Thatcher and Major looked at the space where they'd been, then began discussing the meeting, how this might affect their plans, and what should they tell George?

**The master bedroom, Malfoy Manor:**

The bedchamber – well it was, owing to the large, ostentatious, and currently occupied bed that commanded it – was dimly lit, curtains drawn. Ra'jirra was escorted to the side of it and looked at the shattered man within.

Lucius Malfoy was obviously a wreck. His hair was wild, face pale, and his eyes, when they trembled open, were burning with a manic fever.

"Ra'jirra?" The tones were smooth as cheap sandpaper.

"Yeah, me," the old Khajiit replied quietly, "What in the name of the Nine happened to you?"

"You," Malfoy's eyes bored into him. "Threats and promises; that's what you said," he paused to swallow, "and they are expressions of power. And Malfoys... _we_ are the masters of power."

Ra'jirra said nothing, fitting Malfoy's feverish words into something Dumbledore had said: the Malfoys were the other power behind the Ministry, opposite of the old fart himself. He began to wonder what a Malfoy or two might do if exposed to the Imperial Council, but Lucius resumed.

"Our secret... before 1692... the Statute of Secrecy... we were considered nobles among muggles, had the ears of kings. Afterwards... we hid from our past as well as muggles. We are descendants of Salazar Slytherin you know. We don't rush in face first like some Gryffindor."

He looked uncertainly at Ra'jirra, who had winced in self-recognition. Especially the final battle at Echo Cave.

"The Dark Lord... he told us muggles were filth, unable to stand against us. We believed him. It would've been fatal to doubt. But some of us... they never returned. We thought it was the Aurors or Dumbledore. But really... there were too many for that.

"Your words in Hogwarts," he got to the point, "I've been studying. Dobby would collect books on muggles, from muggle libraries. I had to know. Politics, of course. History. Machines. Weapons." His voice rose unsteadily in pitch. "Three weeks I studied. I know what you mean now, Ar-Arch-Mage! I _know!_"

Ra'jirra just raised his brows, silently encouraging Malfoy to explain. While he'd seen a world ravaged by mugg– Ninedammit, _mundane_ – weapons, even after ten-odd years of study and experiment he still didn't know all that much. Other than those Thalmor wankers disapproved.

"They have machines in the sky," Lucius' eyes focussed on the ceiling, voice slightly crazed, "hundreds of miles up and they can _see us,_ see through our wards because they're so far away, their armies can move faster and strike harder and fly faster than brooms! And they can see what happens in one place around the world with their tell – teller – te-le-visions," he slowed to carefully pronounce the word. "Not all the Obliviators in the world could blot this out...

"We cannot hide! They have power – through their machines – _power!_ Malfoys follow power. That is ours. We advise, we remember, we guide, we survive. We preserve the ways of magic, we remember them right... and true...

"It's hard," and now Malfoy's hands clenched white on the bedclothes, "Everything I knew! It was _right_ but _wrong..._ assumption and ignorance and," his voice became a parody, "yes Master, no Master, anything you say Master, please don't _crucio_ me Master..."

Ra'jirra just nodded. He know what had happened now. But only Lucius Malfoy could get himself out of the fevered madness he was in.

"I stopped you know," now a hand grasped at him nervelessly. "I decided I needed distraction. Changed direction. Did I tell you? Languages. Including Parsel-Runes. Hard to read, harder to decipher, but oh, when you work them out..."

Ra'jirra froze, trying to remember where he'd heard the term. "Parsel?" he asked, "You mean like Parselmouth?"

The smile Lucius donned was more like a skull's. "Yes! Parsel-Runes. Any Parselmouth can read them... You know of one... right?"

"Harry? You want Harry to read something?"

"Yes! More than something! This is..." Lucius fell back on his pillows as he coughed, hard and painful. "Bloody hell... look. Give it... a few weeks. I tried myself... too soon. After those... about the muggles." There was a pop. "Damn it..."

"The healer is coming," said the elf, "and Lady Malfoy as well."

"Wait," Lucius struggled more upright, "bring my Master's keepsake. The book." The house elf popped away, and the shattered man looked at the Khajiit. "I want you to have this."

Before Ra'jirra could compose an intelligent response, the house elf popped back with a rather small, old, thin black book in its hands. "Take it," now Lord Malfoy commanded from the bed, "it holds clues to the fate of wizardkind. My Master bid me keep it safe, but now... damn! Go!"

Ra'jirra didn't hesitate. He took hold of the book, the elf took hold of him, and there was a moment of disorientation as he was relocated.

**Back at Number 10:**

There was a large difference in the room, one of those wide thick square spindle-legged red-faced political types that the United States seems to specialise in.

"What th' hell!" For a big man, he moved quickly, pulling a wand on the arriving Arch-Mage. "What're you?"

"Put that thing away," Thatcher said testily. She remembered that the Yanks tended to think shooting precluded asking any questions at all. "This is the Arch-Mage Ra'jirra we were telling you about."

"He is?" Too late Thatcher remembered that the Yanks could also change tack at the drop of a... was it a stetson? "Herb Snout! US Department of Magic! Pleased to meet ya!" He extended a hand, wand disappearing, then wavered slightly. "Oh hey, what's that there?"

Ra'jirra squinted suspiciously at the American, then switched the book to his left hand. "Once I know I'll tell you. Now who are you again?"

"Uh... Herb Snout. Well, Herb Snout III. My grandpa used to run Kar Kastle in Farmersville just out of Dallas, Texas. 'Course when I found out I was a wizard on my mama's side I ended up goin' to Salem and then workin' for the Department. So then I ended up as liason to the British Ministry o' Magic, and whew! Lawdy, some days it's like goin' back in time, lemme tell ya."

"I'd gathered that," Ra'jirra glanced at Thatcher as he replied. "Anyway, before you go on, Lord Malfoy might be interested in talking with you – once his brain fever breaks anyway. Seems the truth about modern mundanes gave him a breakdown."

Thatcher raised her brows, while Herb whistled. "Hoo boy! I know about the Malfoys. Big supporters of That, uh, well, we call him That Bastard. Must've been persuasive to make him change his tune."

"Not really, I think swiping books from mundane libraries and having a son to think about changed his tune. Anyway," and the old Khajiit blinked at the book he was holding, "he gave me this keepsake of Voldemort's, something to do with clues and fate. Just need a quill."

"Quill?" Thatcher spoke quickly.

"To write in it of course." He blinked at the slim volume again. "You know, like Voldemort did."

"Why? Voldemort's already written in it."

"What?" Ra'jirra blinked, train of thought derailed. "Well of course the sod's written in it. That's what you do with a diary. I'm not stupid you know."

"Just before you were asking for a quill to write in it. And how did you know it was a diary?"

The old Kahjiit stared at her bewildered. Then Herb intervened.

"Arch-Mage? I think y'all better put the book down. I need to check something," he said in a serious tone.

Ra'jirra looked at the book in his hand, then at the desk, feeling like something was wrong. All he wanted to do was write in it, cover the blank pages within with...

_How did I know that?_ He wondered. _I haven't opened the damn thing. How did I even know it was a diary in the first place? Something's more than wrong here. Julianos, help me see clearly!_

"_Petrificus totalus,_" Herb said from behind him, and he fell to the floor, stiff as a board. The book fell too, revealing pages stained by age rather than ink.

"Sorry fella," Herb apologised sincerely, "but I got a bad feeling about that book. _Revelio incantem!_"

They all saw it. The book vanished behind a miasma of dark swirls shot through with hues of poison. Tendrils of ugly colour probed out beyond the book, most reaching for the nearby Khajiit. One counterspell later and Ra'jirra scrambled away from the obviously dangerous object. "That thing was getting at me!" was his intelligent assessment of the situation.

"Yeah, I see some sort of compulsion charm all right," Herb's face was a mask of professional interest. "But there's all that black stuff. I got no idea what the hell it is, but it's Dark as Dark gets. I wouldn't touch that damn thing with bare hands."

Ra'jirra just nodded, face reddened with embarrassment. He'd heard tales of cursed objects, hells, he remembered the ring that had drowned that poor apprentice all those years ago in Cheydinhal. Not to mention an incident en route back to the Arcane University with the Bloodworm Helm that he would never forget and never, ever share with anyone (except Vaermina, but that was unavoidable.) And he'd just been got at by one again!

"I have some people who might be able to work on this," he grunted at last, "but I'll need a box or something." He shook himself. "Anyway, Herb, wasn't it? I take it you're interested in visiting scenic radioactive Earth-1..."

**Later that evening at The Shrieking Shack:**

"Arch-Mage," Dunard Geonette bowed in welcome. "How did your meeting go?"

"I'll tell you shortly," Ra'jirra grunted, already attempting to loosen the fancy hangman's noose Earth people called a tie. Right now he wanted good honest robes. "First off, I want to change, then I want something to eat, and while I do that, take this to Harnir's lab."

Dunard blinked at the bulky envelope. It was a large foolscap manila one, the sort you package official documents in, and Ra'jirra had scrawled on the front: _FOR HARNIR – DANGEROUS! - DO NOT HANDLE WITH BARE HANDS! - WARE MIND!_

"Be _very_ careful. It's aware and it wants you to write in it," Ra'jirra pointed at the package with distaste. "Hells, it got at _me,_ and I didn't twig what was going on. Oh – there's going to be a gaggle of American wizards popping over in a bit, they want to access Earth-1," he added, "but I'll explain that later..."

Dunard sighed, shrugged, and went through the portal to give the Arch-Mage's pet corpse-humping wood elf his package. He could tell Ra'jirra about the coming Halloween celebration afterwards. If he was right, it was like Tales and Tallows...


	30. Chapter 30

**For those who came in late:**

First things first. The disembodied voices and shared dreams business have been edited out – they don't serve any purpose, muddy up the story, and deserve their own timeline.

Anyway, we'll meet Sirius in good time, because everybody knows what time it is!

**October 31****st****, 1991, Great Hall of Hogwarts, lunch:**

Harry was poring over a small charcoal drawing that had accompanied his father's letter. It had cost a pretty septim, but the artist had captured the pride in the parents' faces as well as the solemn regard of their kitten.

"That's your new… cousin?" Neville was also looking at it with some interest, but less cooing than Hermione.

"Niece," Harry referred to the letter, "Her name's Abhima, and she's a Suthay-Raht, 'cos she was conceived under the new moons."

"What's all that mean?" Ron asked. Harry shifted the portrait out of range of the redhead's mastication.

"When you visit expect to be climbed on a regular basis."

"Huh?" Ron's mouth wasn't actually overflowing with food this time because the lunch was light. His stomach didn't like this at all, but it would just have to wait until tonight's banquet. Harry didn't mind, as he was convinced that his clothing was getting tighter with all the food the school encouraged them to devour.

"Khajiit kits are affected by the phases of the moons," Harry explained, "and they say that Suthays climb before they can walk."

"What other types are there?" Hermione's curiosity engaged on all cylinders.

"I'll tell you later," Harry brushed her off, "since the Headmaster's about to speak."

Sure enough, the old man's wand produced the tinkling sound of a fork against glass, silencing the Hall and drawing attention.

"I have recently learned," Dumbledore said, nodding towards Harry, "that in Tamriel they have a similar celebration to Halloween, which they call Tales and Tallows. Part of their festivities includes the telling of… well," and the old man smiled, "I think we can all guess. As such, during the banquet, the Arch-Mage Ra'jirra has graciously offered to entertain us with suitably thrilling tales from his native land."

"Cool," Harry grinned, "I hope it's the one about the time Dad went into that Oblivion Gate!"

"A what?" was Hermione's inevitable response, but the Headmaster was speaking again.

"But before then, there are lessons to be learned –"

Ron went into a frenzy of gorging on what he could get in his mouth.

"Therefore, to class with you!"

Ron made a noise of denial as the sausage he was reaching for vanished, along with the rest of the tableware – and the half-chewed heap that fell from his maw.

**Somewhat later in Charms:**

Ron's approach to casting the levitation charm was very simple. If it didn't work, try again with larger motions and louder voice. That was one reason that his deskmate was edging closer across the unofficial divide between the Gryffindors and Slytherins towards Pansy Parkinson.

Pansy herself felt a certain kinship with the wild-haired Gryffindor. They both wanted to excel at magic; both had been ostracised at school for, among other things, being far brainier than girls are allowed to be; and both were, to be blunt, socially challenged because of it.

"_WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!_" Ron bellowed, shoving his wand at the feather in a manner more suited to the wielding of broadswords.

"No, no no _no!_" the diminutive Charms professor couldn't have ignored the boy if he'd tried. "It's bad enough you're almost braining the other students, but you're mangling the pronunciation as well! Merlin only knows what might happen if your flailing actually _worked_ – have you been paying attention at all?"

Ron's face turned red with embarrassment. Now that Flitwick had stopped him, he now realised that everyone was staring at him, most of the snakes with malicious glee, and most of everyone else in a mixture of awe and disbelief.

"Now," Flitwick continued, "Let me see you do the motion again. Remember, swish and flick, from the wrist. Not the elbow, and definitely _not_ the shoulder."

Sullenly Ron swished his wand, then flicked it.

"Once more," Flitwick ordered, then, "Well you certainly have the motion down right. So, do it again, with the words this time."

Face the same hue as his hair now, the boy glowered at the defiant feather. "_Wingardium leviosa,_" he snapped in a demanding tone. The feather, once again, didn't budge.

Flitwick just shook his head. "That won't do, Mister Weasley. I'm disappointed that my lectures about the importance of correct pronunciation appear to have gone over your head. Two points from Gryffindor, and I expect twelve inches on the importance of pronunciation in spell-casting by this Friday. Miss Granger," and he turned from the now shame-faced and angry boy to the bushy-haired girl, "now that it's safe to return to your desk, would you care to try?"

"Yes professor," she replied, and almost immediately aimed her wand at the feather she hadn't been able to cast at for fear of being brained. "_WinGARdium_," she swished, "_LeviOsa!_" and the flick of her wand sent the feather soaring two feet towards the ceiling.

The little professor clapped his hands with delight. "Perfect!" he cried, "a textbook demonstration! Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger, very well done! And your pronunciation was perfect as well, everybody got that? Who else will try?"

"I will," Pansy declared, then sent her feather soaring a good three feet into the air. She tossed her head and smirked at Granger.

"Five points to Slytherin for a perfect casting," Flitwick crowed, "But remember this is not a competition! Now then – what's that burning?"

The smell was coming from what had been Neville's feather, the boy looking like he was about to be sick. "I-I-I'm sorry," he whimpered, "b-b-but I d-did it right, hon-honestly..."

"Really?" Flitwick banished the smouldering mess and placed a brand new feather on the desk. "I'd like to see you do it again, if you would."

Neville just gulped – Flitwick absently prepared to conjure a bucket – and aimed a shaking wand more or less at the feather. "Deep breath, Mister Longbottom," Flitwick counselled, "forget about me, just focus on the feather... wait a moment." The Charms professor squinted at Neville's hand. "Can I see your wand?"

The boy just stared at him, bewildered. "Your wand, please," Flitwick repeated, hand outstretched. With the air of someone who no longer knew up from down, Neville passed over his wand.

"This is old... I know this wand from the war..." Flitwick frowned, then his eyes widened. "Frank! Why, this is your father's wand... but why are you using it instead of your own?" he asked in honest surprise.

"I... d-don't have one," Neville admitted shamefacedly, "G-Gran said th-that I sh-should b-be able t-to use..." he trailed off.

Flitwick handed the wand back and stroked his chin in thought. "Mister Longbottom," he said at last, "see me before you leave. Mister Potter," and with a few quick motions a quill and a small piece of parchment came zooming from his desk, "take this note to your next class."

Silence fell, as far as the whispering would let it.

"Now then," the minute professor declared, sending his quill on a return journey to his desk, "we've had two examples of how perform the levitation charm, and one example of how _not_ to do it. So! Let's see some more before the bell, shall we?"

**Subsequently, just after Charms:**

Ron was in a strop. Professor Flitwick had made him look like a git – in front of the snakes, no less! – and that impossible bookworm Granger had shown him up on her first try, when he could barely get his feather four inches off the table by the end of class. More by instinct than thought, he moved alongside Harry as the latter emerged from the classroom. "What was that all about?" he asked, glancing at the parchment in the boy's hand.

"He's taking Neville to Ollivander's," Harry observed, "gonna get him a wand that's compatible. Didn't look too pleased about it."

"Wow," inwardly Ron was fuming. How come Harry got to be able to do wandless magic? How come Granger got to levitate her feather on her first try? How come Nev got to skip class to go wand shopping? And how come…

"Ron," Harry jabbed him with an elbow, and nodded to where a knot of Slytherins had formed about… he saw bushy hair.

Granger might have been a bookworm, but she was a Gryffindor, and currently a Gryffindor in trouble. Ron's house loyalty and reckless bravery kicked into gear, and he stormed into the fray, pushing bodies aside in order to get to her.

"So?" he heard a voice that wasn't Hermione's, "what's wrong with talking with someone _intelligent,_ Zabini?"

Pansy's face, like Hermione's was white with tension, and both were glaring defiantly at Blaise, who just sneered back from a position of pureblood superiority, wand in hand.

"What's wrong," he drawled, "is that you think some brainless _Gryffindor,_" he smirked as Hermione flinched, "could be considered _intelligent,_ let alone worth talking to. But then what should we expect from some foolish… Mudblood?"

Ron's brain almost exploded, but Harry's voice rose before he could do anything. "Perhaps more than we can expect from some Little Lord Snot like you?"

Zabini spun around in surprise. "Potter," he scowled, wand waving in indecision between training it on the two witches or this new threat and his carrot-topped ape. "What did you just call me?"

"Little Lord Snot, all pampered and prim," Harry recited, "fell down the longdrop, good riddance to him." His hand flexed ominously. "Now why don't you run along before I find a nice longdrop for you? Dunno if those toilets will work but I feel like trying."

The olive-hued boy was taken aback by that, but a quick glance reassured him; his people outnumbered both Pansy and these three stupid lions. "You and what army, Potter?"

Harry raised his hand with an expression of concentration, yellowish light coalescing about it. Too late Zabini remembered what had happened in Transfiguration, joining the rest of the children in cringing away from where a disc of yellow fell to the floor, revealing a battered skeleton sporting an equally battered war axe and shield.

The skeleton looked about with a well-this-is-interesting pose, then turned to Harry with a what's-all-this-about-pose, before aiming an I-don't-know-what-that-thing-in-your-hand-is-but-I'd-point-it-somewhere-else pose at a shocked Blaise. Despite the bones of the somewhat chipped skull being immobile it somehow managed to look annoyed.

"Meet Mister Bones," Harry drawled, and the skeleton in question straightened up, somehow puffing its ribcage out in pride and banging its axe against shield a couple of times. "He's going to make sure you don't do anything _stupid_ while Hermione and her friend head to class."

Mister Bones looked at his conjurer, then nodded vigorously, bashing his axe on shield again for emphasis, jaw creaking in a caricature of a laugh.

"Friend?" Ron's brain latched on to what was a clear impossibility. "With a Slytherin?" His well-trained prejudice kicked into gear. "That's crazy! You'd have to be stupid to –"

For some reason he was lying on the ground. Then someone nearly trod on him as they fled, and he was sure he heard sobbing. Oddly, Harry and his skeleton were looking down at him with contempt.

"Get up," Harry began, then apparently thought better of it and stalked off. Mister Bones looked at him while striking a you-and-your-big-mouth pose, creaked reproachfully, then loped off after Harry.

It took a short while for Ron to agree that lying on the floor in the middle of a bunch of slimy Slytherins was not a good idea.

**After class:**

"Where are we _going?_" Ron grizzled, mainly because it wasn't towards the Great Hall and the Halloween Feast.

Harry just scowled. The class had been particularly dire, thanks to people spending less time on attending to the professor and more time talking about him. 'Dark' kept cropping up, and it was pissing him off supremely.

"Pardon me milady," he swallowed his irritation and asked a portrait of a regal witch in red and gold robes, "but I'm looking for…"

"A fellow Gryffindor? Bushy hair? Witch?" the portrait interrupted him, "Oh, don't look like that, the other portraits told me. Us Gryffindors have to stick together you know," she winked. "She was chasing after another girl, both looked distraught. I think they went into the third-floor ladies." She grimaced. "I do hope that dreadful Myrtle doesn't bother them more than they already were… Hey! Where'd you go?"

Ron was puffing, while Harry was already knocking on the door to the toilet in question. Both Ra'jirra and S'jirra had drummed good manners into him, especially where a potentially occupied jakes was involved. "Hermione? Pansy? Are you all right in there?"

"Go away," said a tearful voice from behind the door. He couldn't tell whose it was.

"But the Halloween Feast is about to start!" Ron blurted out before Harry could stop him.

The screamed response to this involved an expletive, the word 'off', and Ron's name, causing the two boys to take a step back in shock. The smell of ozone was also a warning.

"C'mon," Harry muttered, steering Ron away, "Let's just leave them be."

"Yeah," Ron nodded, having recollections of his sister in a rage.

**Righty-ho then! Feast time!**

Ra'jirra couldn't help but look around the Great Hall again. It had been done up well past the nines and into almost self-parody – in other words, typical wizarding excess. The tables not only groaned with more fare than was probably feasible, but also with carved pumpkins, which had been hollowed out and apparently stuffed with sweets, to judge by the greedy hands that clutched for them. Overhead, immense pumpkins, carved into leering and often laughing jack-o-lanterns that three men could fit into, spilled light over the hall, in between the virulent orange streamers and flocks of bats that kept swirling about.

Aside from the tat, the food was excellent and there was a huge amount of it. Pumpkin juice took a bit of getting used to though.

"How's the old heart doing?" he asked Dumbledore, more out of something to say than any real interest.

Dumbledore just smiled faintly. "According to the healers, I made an excellent recovery and was a model patient." He speared a roast potato. "Although I did pine for Hogwarts cuisine."

Ra'jirra shrugged. Like his son, he found the local food a little in need of spice. "So when do they reckon Black's going to get out?"

Dumbledore's fork froze halfway to his mouth. Sirius Black had nearly been the death of him, after all.

It had made the international papers: _SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT! DUMBLEDORE_ (or Chief Warlock, or Supreme Mugwhump, depending on the editor)_ COLLAPSES AT TRIAL! PETTIGREW THE TRAITOR! WHERE IS PETTIGREW? CROUCH TO FACE ENQUIRY! _And for readers of _The Quibbler, ROTFANG CONSPIRACY EXPOSED! ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE USED IN DEMENTOR BREEDING EXPERIMENTS!_

Dumbledore's collapse had been from shock at how badly he'd erred – he had completely forgotten that Sirius had urged Peter as the Secret Keeper. "I'm too prominent a target," he'd argued repeatedly, and now the previous administration was reeling under a large amount of egg on its face, while Dumbledore had reeled from a nauseating difficulty in breathing while pain crawled up his arm.

A committee of enquiry was being set up to investigate whether there were any other innocents thrown in Azkaban. It was only his collapse and subsequent recuperation that had prevented another committee from investigating _him._ There were matters of destiny that the common wizard, let alone those in the Ministry, were better ignorant about.

"He may be recovered enough to leave by February," he said at last, "but personally I suspect that the odd visit might be a good idea." He then regarded his morsel-laden fork and consumed it. He'd _really_ missed Hogwarts meals.

"I'll think about it," Ra'jirra shrugged. If he remembered the broadsheets aright, Sirius had handed Harry over to whatsisname, the big... oh yeah, Hagrid... then gone haring bit-in-the-teeth after this Pettigrew. Then he'd spent ten years in some sort of nightmare prison... Gods only knew what he'd do if he saw Harry.

He opened his mouth to ask what was so terrible about this Azkaban place, when the main doors burst open to reveal a highly agitated Quirrell.

"Troll in the dungeons!" the turbanned professor blurted, "Troll in the dungeons! Thought you ought to know..." before collapsing in a dead faint.

A brief moment of shocked silence was followed by an elongated period of utter babel as everyone started shouting at once. It took a good three Cannon-Blast Charms from Dumbledore's wand before he could get a word in edgeways.

"Everyone stay calm!" He declared in a firm tone. "Prefects, escort your Houses back to their common rooms. The staff will –"

"_Hermione!_" All eyes turned to Harry, who was already racing for the door. "She doesn't –"

"_HOLD!_"

Ra'jirra's voice was slightly less ominous than a Thu'um. The boy froze, one foot still raised mid-stride.

"Where are you going?" The Khajiit folded his arms and glared at the boy.

"The – the –" Harry faltered, "the third floor toilets," he finished into the silence, "she doesn't know about the troll because she – she..."

"She will," Ra'jirra said a little more gently, "because _I'm_ going to collect her. _You,_" his voice hardened, "are going to follow your prefect or prefects back to your common room, and you are definitely _not_ going to go chasing trolls. Because," and he raised one had against the boy's protests, "you don't have the magicka or the skill or the reach to fight off one of those three-eyed monsters. And that's final."

Most of the staff blinked in confusion. They'd never heard of three-eyed trolls.

"Well? Are we going to wait for the troll to get bored and join us? Headmaster Dumbledore's given his orders, now move!"

As if released from a paralysis spell, a more organised bedlam arose as the prefects swung into action. Ra'jirra just sternly stared Harry into joining his House and heading out the door.

"I'll go find this Hermione girl," Ra'jirra offered, "what's the quickest route to the third floor?"

"Ah – are you sure that's safe?" Dumbledore blinked at him. "As my guest, I don't want to put you in any danger..."

"I'll be further away from the dungeons, so less chance of running into anything green-furred, long-armed and three-eyed," he shrugged, "and you all know the layout of this place better than me. This girl'll probably have to steer me to the Gryffindors." He turned serious. "I know I'm teaching you your jobs, but if you run into it, remember to use fire on any wounds you inflict, otherwise the bloody thing'll regenerate. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a girl to find."

The staff just gaped at him as he strode out of the hall. "What on earth's he call a troll then?" wondered Hagrid, "Never heard o' one with green fur or three eyes."

"I think we'd better find the troll then before it finds him," Dumbledore fretted. "Poppy, can you...?"

"Right away," Madame Pomfrey was already casting _levicorpus_ and towing Quirrell towards the infirmary.

**Subsequently on the third floor:**

"The troll!" Ra'jirra heard a voice up ahead.

"Troll? That's a _giant!_" His ears folded in annoyance. Trust the boy to go in face first anyway.

"It's a troll, trust me."

"No, trolls are smaller than that, green, with three eyes," Harry objected.

"I'm telling you, it's a mountain troll!" Ra'jirra could now see two black-cloaked figures peering around a corner. One had messy black hair, the other a shock of red. So... Harry and his friend Ron, of the documented shocking table manners.

"It's going in that door," Ron observed, "We can lock it in and go get Hermione."

"And Pansy," Harry's response caused Ra'jirra to halt in confusion. The boy hadn't mentioned anyone else.

"She's Slytherin. The troll can get her for all anyone cares."

"It's inside! Come on, before it gets –"

A pair of girlish screams came from down the corridor, startling all three of them.

"It went in the girl's loo," Ron stated the obvious.

Then he yelped, along with Harry, something to do with excruciating pains in their ears. Their heads twisted around to look up at Ra'jirra, something to do with his grabbing same.

"Get you to your common room," Ra'jirra's face was as frightening and implacable as his tone. Ron gaped, Harry shrank.

"Yes father," he faltered, then grabbed Ron and fled in the direction his dad had come.

"Stupid boy," the old Khajiit mage grumbled, then quietly snuck up to the door from where a lot of smashing and screaming was coming from and peered in.

The troll was hard to miss. Twelve-foot-tall humanoids that could make the Imperial City sewers smell sweet, and a Xivilai crap itself, generally are. For a moment Ra'jirra was struck by the fact its ears were almost half the size of its tiny head. Then he came to his senses and looked around for the girls.

The toilet was almost completely destroyed. Shards of wood and porcelain were scattered about, saturated in the water spraying from broken pipes. The noise and wet seemed to be confusing the giant creature, giving Ra'jirra plenty of time to locate the two terrified children, cowering in the far left corner at the end of a row of sinks.

A _shortening_ row of sinks; the troll almost idly shattered one with a club that was really just a log bashed into shape and roughly half as long again as a claymore or greatsword.

"Mehrunes Dagon's pox-rotten balls," he breathed.

The mission was fairly straightforward: get the damn giant away from the girls, then seal it in until you got help. Preferably help involving nice sharp axes for jointing the brute. He didn't know much about giants, except that normally they preferred to raise their mammoths in peace. What the hells was one doing in _here?_

He knew how Zul gro-Radagash, Champion of Cyrodiil, would handle it: pull out a bloody great chopper and charge in. But he wasn't Zul. He was old Ra'jirra, fat, forty-ish, currently food-slowed and wearing nothing but glad rags.

Shock magics were out of the question. Yes, he could zap the giant that way, but the girls were soaked too, so there was too much danger of frying them as well. And he didn't know what shape they were in. Flame atronach? No bloody good, too much water. Frost, then – yes, that was it. But the best spell he had needed contact…

_Stupid old fool,_ Ra'jirra chided himself as he carefully padded into the toilet towards the monster, hand groping in the Aurbis for cold._  
_

Hermione saw him. She looked about to call out, but Pansy forced a hand over her mouth. This made the bushy-haired girl start, and the splashes attracted the troll's attention. Now it knew where its food was, and its food was trapped in this wet square cave. It began to advance, idly smashing the white things that made water. Maybe the food would try to run, that would be…

Something slapped the troll's calf, before nasty sharp pain in its leg seized its attention. Stupidly, it poked the cold white stuff that was holding its foot, before having a brainwave: hitting it would make the stuff let go.

The resultant bawl of pain could be heard quite a way off.

Ra'jirra, ignoring his ringing ears, hurried over and grasped the girls. "Come on!" he urged them, "We're getting out of here!"

Unfortunately, because of said ringing ears he spoke a little too loudly. The troll looked up, spotted the bigger food that was about to take the little food away. Bawling with anger this time, it swung its club straight at the big food. It would end up all mushy, but too bad. Food was food.

Ra'jirra dived away from the club, ears down and eyes wide with real fear. The children were hysterical, unable to think coherently enough to cast any spells. As if they would know any capable of stopping, let alone killing, a full-grown, hungry, and now upset mountain troll. The wet floor and debris weren't helping his footing any as he struggled to rise.

For a moment, he found himself looking into tiny, angry little eyes, flanked by large, almost egg-shaped ears.

Then the troll's expression changed from sadism to surprise. It straightened up, then tried to look around to see what was hitting it from behind.

Mister Bones might have been a conjured construct, but over the years of being summoned by Ra'jirra, he'd begun to develop a definite personality. Teeth grated explosively in frustration as it circled around behind the giant, hacking at the back of its knees. Apparently his iron axe wasn't quite up to the task of cutting through troll skin.

The skeleton had to jump back as the monster tried to swing its club behind its back, giving it time to turn around and see its bony tormentor. Mister Bones, now thoroughly pissed off, somehow managed to shriek as he leaped forward, axe swinging in a high overhand smash directly into its crotch.

Trolls are not known for their vocal range, and it is quite likely that this one set a world record for the highest pitched sound ever made by that species. Dropping its club, it grabbed itself and fell to its knees.

Mister Bones had time to look up with an oh-you-_have_-to be-joking pose before being crushed back into the Aurbis by roughly a ton of reeking troll fat, skin, muscle, and bone.

Ra'jirra took his cue. Staggering to his feet, he half-dragged the panicky girls to the door. Behind them, the troll looked up through watering eyes, howled with rage this time, and grasped for its club.

"_Wingardium leviosa!_"

The club rose out of the troll's reach; the monster staggered to its feel again, wildly grabbing for the evasive weapon.

At the door, Harry found himself having two very wet girls thrust at him by his equally wet father. Ron, turning purple with exertion, was also jostled, causing him to lose his concentration.

There was a definite, almost comical _clonk_ from inside the toilet, a larger version of the sound you would expect from a rock being hit with a heavy stick. Ra'jirra, turning around, saw the giant creature just standing there with a bewildered look on its ugly face, swaying slightly, before its eyes rolled up in its head and it fell to the floor, lightly denting it.

Ron collapsed, wheezing like a bellows. Ra'jirra pulled the door shut, before turning to the children – including one _very_ disobedient son.

He wanted to turn the brat over his knee and spank the fear of the Nine into him; he wanted to reward him and his redhead mate for distracting and dealing to the troll. Hells, their disobedience had quite likely saved all three of their lives. He was still consumed with indecision when McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Dumbledore came charging up.

"What's going on here?" McGonagall demanded, looking at the five in confusion. "Potter – Weasley? You should have been in your common room! Miss Granger, what happened to you?"

"What happened?" Ra'jirra replied in a weary voice, "Take a look in there. Then explain why these girls were hiding in there instead of being at the feast, and where the hells that giant came from." He looked at Harry, who gulped audibly. "Well, boy? _You_ seemed to know."

"What giant?" Flitwick asked in perplexity, before looking into the ruined toilet. "That's the troll!" he squeaked, "and it's out cold!"

Ra'jirra looked like he was getting a headache. "Clan-Mother preserve us," he groaned, "you mean that thing's what you call a troll?"

"Well, of course," Flitwick replied in confusion, "an adult mountain troll to be precise. They're incredibly tough, and hard to put down. How did you do it?"

"That was me sir," Ron finally managed to get out, "Harry conjured up that skeleton of his, and it… I think it hit the troll in the bollocks… then it dropped its club, and I saw, um, him and the girls making a break for it… and I just… you know… cast the first thing I could think of."

"The club flew up into the air," Ra'jirra added helpfully.

"The levitation charm?" Flitwick stared at Ron. "Perhaps we can waive the essay then. See where proper pronunciation gets you?"

Ron just stared back.

"Be that as it may," Snape declared stiffly, straightening up from where he had cast a drying charm on a shaking Pansy, "Why was one of my Slytherins hiding in a toilet with a Gryffindor during the Halloween Feast?"

Dumbledore was looking between Ra'jirra and Harry, the twinkle dimmed. "Perhaps we had better make sure everyone is unharmed, before Madame Pomfrey comes on the warpath," he decided.

Ra'jirra had never met Madame Pomfrey in her professional role, and from observation he was glad. "The boys are just fine," she said at last, "and the girls are soaked, suffering from shock, and they have a few cuts from what look like broken sinks, but they'll be out of the infirmary by morning. Now what about the troll? What happened?"

"Let's start by answering Snape's question," Ra'jirra added, "since that seems to be the cause of all this."

"Y-y-y-yes-s-s," Quirrell, it appeared, was back to his normal stuttering self. "I w-w-would l-like to kn-n-know m-m-mys-s-self."

That Halloween was a very long, unpleasant night for Harry and Ron.

The next day, Gryffindor found it had lost nearly two hundred points: despite Harry and Ron earning fifty for quick thinking and saving the lives of fellow students and a guest, they lost fifty for disobedience to, in order, the Headmaster, Ra'jirra, then Ra'jirra _again._ When the two chastened boys returned to the Gryffindor common room, they were caught by Percy Weasley, who ordered the deduction of more points without bothering to listen to what they had to say for themselves. (After all, they were firsties and _he_ was a Prefect.) And then there was the use of magic in the hallways. Yes, it was Tamrielic, but rules are rules.

Slytherin was smug, but not by much; Blaise ended up on the carpet for endangering a fellow Slytherin. He thought being penalised for putting a mudblood in her place was unfair, and the loss of fifty House points doubly so, and the schism between the Parkinson and Zabini factions deepened.

Adding to the fun, the prefects of both Slytherin and Gryffindor were censured for not ensuring that all students in their respective houses were accounted for, and more points were lost.

The Slytherins, naturally, blamed the Gryffindors for endangering one of their own. The Gryffindors blamed them back, but also Harry and Ron for not doing as they were told.

That was the poisonous backdrop against which the first match of the Inter-House Quidditch Cup took place.

* * *

A/N: Originally I was expecting Harry to stab the troll in the stones with a bound dagger, but Dumbledore surprised me. Ra'jirra's in a strop with me now. Sometimes the logical progression of events is orthogonal to expectations.


	31. Chapter 31

**For those who came in late:**

Ra'jirra was invited to story-tell at the Halloween Banquet, but Quirrell and that troll upstaged him. He ended up saving the lives of Hermione and Pansy Parkinson instead – with the help of an oddly disobedient Harry and Ron. (He did get to tell the whole story the following evening, by the way.)

**Under a turban:**

His master's plan was a work of genius: elegant, effective and evil, all at once. By the time the old fool (or that disgusting _creature_) realised the deception, it would be too late. The pathetic obstacle course didn't pose a threat to one guided by the greatest wizard who ever lived _twice,_ after all, but these vermin would be worn out by the time the stone was finally his lord's.

Then the great work would be finally complete.

**Heading towards the Quidditch pitch:**

"Thanks for inviting me," Ra'jirra said as he and Dumbledore headed towards the stands and goalposts rising from the Hogwarts sward, "Have to say I've never heard of flying games before." He scratched his nose. "Not even the Dunmer had them in Morrowind, and they could levitate."

"Really?" Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Well then, I can assure you that you are in for quite a treat. A noble and respected game, Quidditch, even though some of the younger prefer broom racing or that Quodpot they play in the colonies…"

The two old men walked along in silence. The stands were clearly decorated in the colours of the school houses, and they could see students already crowding into them.

"Did, ah…" Dumbledore began carefully, "Did Sirius…"

"Oh, he's happy to be out of the healers' claws," Ra'jirra chuckled. "Harry suggested that his godfather would be better off recovering in Potter Manor, and the poor sod was almost crying with joy." His chuckle turned to a snicker. "Then when he arrives there, he goes straight to James and Lily's portrait, and bloody hells did they tear a strip off him!"

"They _what?_"

"They were furious! Forsaking their 'Prongslet' for revenge, though why they'd call Harry that I've no idea. He was a fair bit hangdog when he 'suddenly' needed a rest."

Dumbledore snorted with amusement.

"It's a shame he couldn't come see his godson play, really," Ra'jirra went on, "But signs are there's still a lot of people who think he's guilty as sin…"

"Actually," Dumbledore decided to drop that issue and focus on something the old Kahjiit had said in passing, "You mentioned your people knew about levitation. Don't people use it anymore?"

"Two reasons," Ra'jirra replied, "Law and safety. When thieves can fly, nobody's valuables are safe." He shrugged. "Not that you could move very fast, but people get surly about arrow-riddled criminals landing on their heads or something, I guess. Oh, and also, when the spell wore off, you only knew about it when you began falling. I've no idea how many pilgrim corpses lie between Vivec and Red Mountain because of that."

**Down on the ol' Quidditch pitch:**

From a game designer's point of view, the popular wizarding sport of Quidditch, a cross between dodgeball, basketball, and aerial combat, appears at first glance to be broken.

After all, any game where two out of twelve players are chasing after one ball, and everyone else is discussing who gets another through a hoop, would seem a bit dodgy; but when one of those balls not only ends the game once caught, but also gives a huge amount of points – well, where's the game in that?

Oliver Wood wouldn't have given a fig for such observations. He would have explained – and indeed had, repeatedly, to the boredom of the hapless Gryffindor team – that competition games weren't played singly. They were played _as a series,_ and that meant scoring more than a minimal number of points. In the case of the Hogwarts Inter-House Cup, one thousand eight hundred points might mean your side always caught the Snitch, but you'd still come in last, likely as not.

Besides, your team would also get bollocked for being bad sports and useless with the Quaffle.

In fact, one team had pursued just such a strategy, resulting in the Five Minute Riot of 1762 (twelve dead, seventy-five seriously injured, according to _Quidditch Through the Ages_). Wood's strategy today was more elaborate, but boiled down to scoring at least a hundred and fifty points before Harry could quit feinting and misleading the opposition Seeker and actually _catch_ the Snitch.

As Seeker, Harry actually had two jobs. One was to find and catch the Snitch before the other Seeker. The other job was to distract the opposition Beaters from harassing his side's Chasers – which in practice meant _he_ had to dodge the bludgers instead. Since those iron balls "padded" with leather were enchanted to charge the nearest broom rider within six feet, that could be tricky.

If he could pull all that off, he'd redeem himself in the eyes of his fellow Gryffindors. All right, _three_ jobs.

"_HERE COMES JOHNSON!_" Lee Jordan's magically amplified voice boomed throughout the stands, which despite the entire school turning out were still pretty empty. Hermione had lectured (she would say 'explained') about how so many families had been effectively wiped out or driven into exile from Voldemort's reign of terror. The result was a severely diminished student body...

Harry shook his head to stop wool-gathering, then pulled his broom around to see Angelina send the Quaffle past the Slytherin Keeper and through the left-hand goal hoop.

"_TEN-NIL TO GRYFFINDOR!_" The cheering swelled from those in the red and gold stands. Something else in gold caught his attention, and with a reproachful creak from his school broom, he went into a power dive.

Terence Higgs didn't need Lee playing Captain Obvious; he was already urging his broom to catch up to the Boy-Who-Lived. Looking ahead of the red-robed Seeker, he frowned, then quickly scanned the pitch, before jinking right to where he glimpsed a flash of gold.

"_HIGGS DIDN'T BUY IT!_" Lee yelled, "_THE LOUSY SNAKE –_"

"_Mister Jordan!_" Minerva McGonagall was as biased as the next witch, but she also knew the importance of impartiality. Lee needed some reminding, on the other hand.

"_SORRY PROFESSOR – HIGGS IS CHARGING FOR THE SLYTHERIN GOAL – AND HERE COMES HARRY! IS THIS A – NO! THERE'S THE SNITCH!_"

The screaming crowd was all the confirmation that Harry needed; Higgs had seen the Snitch – and Harry was damned if the boy was going to get it. Not because, as Snape believed for one, he was an attention-seeking brat – no, he was trying to avoid a far worse fate: the Disappointment of Oliver Wood.

If anything else could ruin Harry's enjoyment of Quidditch, Oliver Wood's monomania could give it a run for its money.

The Snitch jinked left and Harry turned to match it, Higgs having to shift aside to avoid a collision. Unlike some previous team members, he knew the value of keeping close to the rules.

Then a bludger was sent in their direction.

Beaters have a tough job: they need to track three targets, and then hit the bludger just hard enough that it gets far enough away from their own teammates and themselves, but not so hard that it can't intercept the chosen victim before sailing out of range. Sadly, the Slytherin lunk hit somewhat too enthusiastically.

Harry did indeed have to take evasive action, but the bludger turned towards Higgs. Cries of despair (from the Slytherin audience) and outrage (from Higgs) followed this, and Harry vaguely noticed Flint soaring up to tear a strip off the errant Beater. Where was the damn Snitch?

He rose upwards, and noticed with some satisfaction that Katie Bell had fired the Quaffle right past an oblivious Miles Bletchley, who in turn got a reaming from the increasingly irate Slytherin Captain.

"_AND GRYFFINDOR LEADS TWENTY-NIL! SLYTHERIN NEEDS TO STOP BACKSTABBING AND WORK TOGETHER IF..._"

Harry tuned Jordan out and spun about, looking for that Gods-damned Snitch.

**Down in the staff box:**

"These new brooms are marvellous," Professor Sprout's eyes sparkled with happiness. "I think Hooch could kiss Fudge for unsealing the Potter will..."

Snape did his best to _not_ roll his eyes. If you were going to mention brooms to the Hogwarts flying instructor, taking refreshments and something to occupy your hands was generally a good idea.

Fortunately, Hooch was currently refereeing the game, leaving him to his suspicions about Quirrell. Absently, he scratched his left arm thinking about that. No – Quirrell had _not_ stuttered on that Halloween night. Perhaps it was just a fluke, but that faint was a fake if ever he saw one.

His ankle twinged, and he shifted his weight. That damn thing Dumbledore had brought into the school was undoubtedly the root cause of all that ruckus, so of _course_ he'd been told off to check things were still all right. Certainly that hairy beast of Hagrid's was just _fine._ He had the bite to prove it.

He glanced over at their unexpected guest. Ra'jirra was gaping at the game, head turning as he tried to track the Chasers, then the Seekers. "Bloody hells," that worthy said at last, "it's a proper war up there!"

_Score one to us,_ the sour professor thought to himself with amusement.

"People like games with an element of risk," Dumbledore said a little pompously, "It's probably why Gobstones and Exploding Snap are also popular."

"So what's Harry looking for again?" Ra'jirra was absently making small talk while his mind raced. The problem with technological flying machines was that they needed lots of maintenance, fuel, and space to take off. These magical flying brooms on the other hand had no moving parts, could probably be made by regular enchanting, and, well, they didn't need immense 'air ports' like in that picture Hermione and Harry had sent him.

He could see it now, cruising through Tamriel's skies: a great metal ship, probably shaped like a loaf of bread, the Imperial dragon sported proudly on its sides, inside an entire century of troops refreshed and ready to disembark when it landed at the...

Something golden flashed in his vision, jolting him out of his daydream. It was about the size of a walnut, with two little wings either side, and currently hovering a foot in front of his nose. Automatically he reached for it, and the Snitch's enchantments reacted, propelling it back towards the pitch at roughly eighty miles per hour.

"That," Dumbledore stated, in an amused tone. "As you've noticed, Seekers have to be fast and agile in order to outrun or out-manoeuvre the Golden Snitch."

Ra'jirra just grunted, watching a black-haired boy in red robes changing course to pursue the fleeing object.

"It's unbelievable what Harry's able to do on that Cleansweep," Sprout gushed at rather than to Ra'jirra, "I mean, Higgs is flying a Nimbus 1700, but you wouldn't know he's on a Cleansweep Six – you'd think he was flying a Nimbus 2000!"

"I know," the old Khajiit nodded, "Some idiots think a bigger sword makes up for piss-awful skill."

**Down in the Gryffindor stands:**

"Bless you," Hermione said absently to Ron. The boy just sniffled and wiped his nose.

**About sixty feet above ground level and twenty feet away from the Gryffindor goal:**

Harry was focussed on one thing. It was about the size of a walnut, winged, and trying very hard to get away. Which it _would_ fail at _this _time.

Then it dropped away from his outstretched hand.

So did the ground.

Then Snitch and ground jerked sideways.

And again.

Harry had to grab onto his broom as it attempted to throw him off again, then again, and yet again, and then one decidedly long and overenthusiastic again.

**Down in the stands:**

"_WHAT'S HARRY DOING?_" Lee's amplified voice expressed the confusion of the spectators. "_IT'S AS IF... IT'S LIKE SOMETHING'S WRONG WITH HIS BROOM! I CAN SEE HIM CLINGING ON FOR DEAR LIFE –_"

The match ground to a halt. Even the Slytherin Beaters realised that brooms should _not_ move like that. Harry was being shaken across the pitch like he was in a clannfear's beak or a daedroth's jaws, and nobody it seemed knew what to do.

"Some bastard's cursing Harry!" Ron cried.

"Ron! Language!" Hermione scolded reflexively.

"He's right," Draco was staring at the stands. "But I think it's worse than that. Look at Professor Snape and Quirrell."

Hermione looked. Quirrell she dismissed as ineffectual, thanks to his pathetic antics in the classroom. Snape, on the other hand, was looking competent. And, she knew – like everyone else in Hogwarts – Snape had it in for the Boy-Who-Lived.

Therefore, Snape was responsible.

"We have to stop him," she glared at her least favourite teacher.

"I'll do it."

"What?"

But Neville had already left.

**Under the staff box:**

If he hadn't been so angry, he would have fallen out of sheer nerves.

If he hadn't been so angry, he would have had second thoughts about assaulting a professor.

If he hadn't been so angry, he would have clogged his mind with imaginings about his Gran's disapproval. It was bad enough that she had sent _him_ a Howler about Professor Flitwick's decision to get him his own wand! Indeed, that simmering resentment probably helped to clear his head.

And aided his taking fire from the Aurbis, like Harry had shown him.

**In the staff box:**

Snape yelled as he was briefly engulfed in flame.

The sight of a fellow professor attempting to stamp himself out attracted all attention. As a result, the Gryffindor Seeker's trajectory stabilised into a power dive.

**On the Quidditch pitch:**

Harry slid on his stomach a good twenty-two feet, the Cleansweep buried almost up to its brush in the ground. His arms flailed as he attempted to rise, but a lack of air prevented him.

"Oi Harry!"

"Are you –"

"– alright?"

Harry made, quite understandably, choking noises.

"C'mon mate – say something! – Can you hear me? – You alright?"

Harry was becoming hard pressed to hear anything over the grey ringing.

"Harry! – You're choking! – Whadda we do Fred? – I dunno!"

Dimly Harry was aware of more voices and feet approaching through the darkening grey. Then something crushed his chest, and he heaved as something else fell out of his mouth. With rubbery fingers he scooped it up; framed in the glittering silver inside his eyes he saw gold.

It is entirely plausible that 'Aaaaugghhh' was supposed to be "I caught the Snitch". Certainly Madame Hooch thought so, and so the match was awarded.

* * *

A/N: Yes, I know this is a little short, but to be frank this seemed to be a good place to stop. It's _Quidditch_ for Merlin's sake.


	32. Chapter 32

**For those who came in late:**

Harry's just won his first Hogwarts Inter-House Quidditch match. Admittedly there was a slight case of broom-tampering, and an argument, but catching the snitch orally isn't against the rules, and that's that.

**Back at the Shrieking – er, Embassy of Cyrodiil:**

Ra'jirra had a certain spring in his step as he headed Tamriel-ward. It was a pity about poor old Snape catching fire, but sometimes, he mused, you had to make sacrifices for the good of your students.

With no idea of what was waiting for him, he started half-singing a little bawd that was popular with just about everyone except the prim, the female, the Argonian, and anyone who knew Crassius Curio or his reputation. It began thus:

_O Lifts-Her-Tail was an Argonian she  
Sweetest little maid you ever did see…_

The current record was forty-eight unique stanzas of varying sexual ingenuity, unquestionable bodily flexibility, and emphatic moral depravity, held jointly by the denizens of The Bloated Float, Imperial City Docks District, Cyrodiil. Crassius Curio would have wept for delight.

As he closed on the weathered building, he noticed something that appeared to be hovering around the entrance. Said entrance was currently obscured by Dervas, whose face was darker than usual.

"Ah," the Dunmer declared, "Here is the Arch-Mage now. Arch-Mage Ra'jirra," he raised his voice formally, "this is Miss Rita Skeeter, a reporter for the _Daily Prophet,_ and, ah, Bruno, a photographer," he carefully navigated the word, "for same."

There was something about Rita's posture, clothing and movement that made the old Khajiit think of an insect, not helped by her face-crippling glasses which dominated her head. A handbag apparently made of daedroth skin almost matched her iridescent green robes, and there was something about her gaze that put him on edge. By comparison, Bruno was a lump with an equally lumpen camera.

"We'd just like a brief interview," Rita's voice was a buzz, "after all, it's been nearly six months since the Boy-Who-Lived returned to us, and we find that we know so little about his guardians there. Everyone wants to know what his life was like with you – what sort of… of person you are – the…"

Ra'jirra was a good judge of character. You had to be in a position like his. And his judgement was causing Rita to become mesmerised by one deadly orange eye slowly emerging from beneath a rising eyebrow.

"Not to mention you'd get one hell of an exclusive, right?" A furry hand rose to stroke the leonine chin. "Well, sounds reasonable. And if there's pictures… I know. Follow me." A smile crossed his face. "I know a spot with great views over eastern Cyrodiil."

For some reason the smile didn't have much warmth.

**On the other side of the stable portal, Black Plateau Magickal Research Facility:**

"How's that for a view?" Ra'jirra leaned on the parapet of the outer ring and gestured westward. "That's White Gold Tower over there – tallest building in the province and centre of the Empire."

Bruno moved around, his camera clicking, trying to get Ra'jirra looking as regal as possible in front of the magnificent landscape. Neither he nor Rita could avoid glancing up at the twin crescents that were quietly pacing the afternoon sun.

"Well, this is all well and good," Rita said at last, no longer willing to play second fiddle to some creature, Dark or otherwise, "But perhaps now I can ask a few questions?"

"Don't see why not, and may Julianos have mercy on the liar," the old Khajiit shrugged, although his intonation suggested an invocation to that Divine.

Rita dug into her crocodile-skin bag and withdrew a sheet of parchment, which a quick wand-tap soon had flattened out against one of the stones. She then extracted a large quill that was a startling shade of green. "This is a Quick-Quotes quill," she explained, "It will record what we talk about."

"Can't be any less accurate than the usual method," Ra'jirra grunted.

Rita sucked on the end before touching it to the parchment, whereupon it sprang upright, almost vibrating eagerly.

"This is Rita Skeeter, interviewing Arch-Mage Ra'jirra," she declared, and Ra'jirra watched as the quill began to skitter along.

_Our glamorous correspondent, forty-three year old Rita Skeeter, risked life and limb to interview the mysterious Dark creature that calls itself Harry's 'father', the Arch-Mage Rachirra._

The old Khajiit burst into laughter. "'Risked life and limb', it says!" he chortled, "Am I really that dangerous looking? Don't tell my wife, she'll never let me live it down."

_Despite his fearsome appearance, resembling a great grizzled nundu, Ra'jerra turns out to be quite the pussy-cat, once you get to know him._

"Well," Rita began awkwardly, "let us begin with the Quidditch today. How did you feel seeing the Boy-Who-Lived in mortal peril?"

Ra'jirra looked thoughtfully not at her, but the quill. "The whole school staff was there," he said at last, "and all the students would know the – what is it? – oh yeah, levitating charm. I don't think Harry was in any real danger."

"_I thought he was going to die," Ra'jerra said with a shaking voice and moist eyes, "Nobody knew what to do, not even–_

The quill juddered to a stop, Ra'jirra now glaring at it with more than natural intensity. Then it began writing again, but jerkier, as though fighting some outside influence.

_We lost the know-how of magical flight decades ago – partly laws and partly the downfall of Dagoth Ur. Levitation's all well and good – then the damn spell wears off, and if you don't know 'slow fall', which was a variant, you're generally stuffed._

A shocked Rita grabbed the quill and stared at Ra'jirra, who was now red in the face and puffing like a bellows. "What in Merlin's baggy underpants did you do?"

"That thing reads minds," the Khajiit gasped, "must do – to gussy up your words – like that. My best – skill is Mysticism – so I tried to make it – write what I wanted." He took several breaths as his face returned to its normal hue. "Besides, that thing should be purple," he added in a more normal tone, "or cow shit brown. Also I can probably talk enough for a whole swag of articles." He winked. "Got a quill like that which just does dictation? I'll gab and you can pretty it up later."

Rita just stared at him, then at the Quick-Quotes Quill. The quill shivered in her hand and somehow managed to look mortified.

As it turned out, once Rita had swapped acid green for a more sedate-looking grey dictation quill, Ra'jirra was quite the raconteur. "Gilderoy who?" he asked at one point, "I wouldn't have known him from imp chips at the time. All I knew was that some gaudy guy was babbling away and shoving a wand in my face, didn't bloody ask me did he? So I swatted it aside, realised he hadn't bloody noticed and was about to cast Nine-know-what in a crowded room, so out goes the fist and bonked him on the bugle."

Bruno was sworn to secrecy regarding Rita Skeeter's giggling like a schoolgirl.

"It was hate at first sight," Ra'jirra stated later, "and I wasn't too taken with that Minister of yours, Fudge isn't it? The ghastly woman was going on about me being a dark creature until he grew some stones and pulled her up. Good thing Harry wasn't there or I'd be fetching a mop…"

"You don't think the Boy-Who-Lived would have attacked the Senior Undersecretary of the Minister of Magic!" Rita exclaimed.

"He would," he nodded seriously, "You call Gryffindor the house of the brave, right? No wonder he's in there," not waiting for Rita's confirmation. "And he's almost as overprotective as J'dargo was at his age…"

He also elaborated. "The school of Mysticism covers spells that detect life forces – and undeath forces, funnily enough. I think it's something to do with the caster imbuing a little of his own into the subject but I'm not sure. Anyway, I used to spend a lot of time on the road casting Detect Life and watching for pinkish glows. So I got pretty good at it."

Later that evening, looking over the magically extended parchment – actually a scroll of nearly twelve feet in length – Rita realised that the Khajiit was right. She _did_ have enough for a whole swag of articles. It just needed a little… smoothing out.

Harry's recklessness when someone was in danger, she surmised, seemed to be driven by seeing his aunt die trying to protect him. She clicked her tongue and decided the final draft would _not_ mention his slitting throats. But the public would _love_ a selflessly brave Boy-Who-Lived. And it dovetailed so well with what Ra'jirra had said about what had happened on Halloween, too!

Rita's eyes widened as she made a connection; she took a fresh three-footer of parchment and plucked up her Quick-Quotes Quill, licking her lips with anticipation.

She most definitely did _not_ giggle like a schoolgirl then, either.

**The Shrieking Shack, the following day:**

Ra'jirra was making eyes at the copy of _The Daily Prophet_ he was reading. Said eyes, which were frightening his fellow magi despite not being in the line of fire, were almost wasted; the people in the photographs were cowering behind things or hiding out of frame by now. Rita Skeeter, and her green quill, had apparently gone on a rampage.

Most of the Daily Prophet was taken up by the lead article and its attendant photographs, sub-articles, sub-sub-articles, and, in those few cracks between those and the all-important advertisements, the quidditch scores and an interesting rumour about a band called The Pack planning a reunion tour.

Half the front page sported a handsome photograph of him leaning (officially regally) against Black Plateau's parapet, with the spire of White Gold Tower visible in the distance, along with the crescents of Masser and Secunda in the sky. Other photos inside included him proudly displaying the charcoal of his son's family (which made him feel warm inside), as well as a photograph of Harry being cornered in that pub… what was it… oh yeah, the Leaky Cauldron.

It seemed that Rita had decided to portray Ra'jirra the family man than the Arch-Mage. That way, she'd been able to sneak a number of snipes at the Ministry and Dumbledore in among the marvelling at Tamriel in general and, he noticed with some amusement, Abhima.

The article, as stated, was escorted by a phalanx of sub-articles explaining some of the peculiarities of Tamrielic life. Some of them were accurate; others were clearly the work of a certain lime-green magic quill with a grudge against powerful Khajiit mages.

One involved a 'statement' by Cornelius Fudge, which Skeeter accurately identified as not stating anything concrete. Ra'jirra also accurately identified it as worth less than a hill of imp turds.

Another, however, noted the large number of 'wizards from the American colonies' that were currently working in Black Plateau, and speculated on what this might mean. _Damn,_ Ra'jirra thought. That could cause some friction between him and the dork in the green hat.

"Arch-Mage!" the call was followed by a decidedly rattled Dumbledore, vermillion robes askew and his equally puce hat on sideways. "Have you seen – did you speak to –"

"Rita Skeeter of the _Prophet_? Yeah," Ra'jirra admitted, more than a little surprised by the Headmaster's agitation. "I note she skipped over where I took control of that Bullshitter's Quill, or whatever it was called, and she got the wrong end of the stick about the corpse-humper attack on Tales And Tallows, and she likes to splash her opinions all over every-bloody-thing, but other than that… why? Something wrong?"

The old man just stared at the Khajiit, utterly thrown for a loop. "Wrong? Of _course_ there's something wrong! That woman's the worst kind of muck-raker, and now she's thrown my competence as Headmaster into doubt!"

"You mean this bit? 'While the Arch-Mage and his son were victorious over the troll, one has to wonder at how such a Dark Creature could have trespassed into the most well-protected...' blah blah. Yeah, she does lay it on a little thick there doesn't she?"

"Thanks to her and you and I now have to attend an inquiry!"

"Well grow some stones then." Ra'jirra frowned at the agitated wizard, unable to understand why he was acting like some idiot Guildie caught out doing something stupid. "It's not as if you're expected to be omnipotent or anything…"

Dumbledore just looked at him sadly.

"You're bloody joking."

"I wish I was," Dumbledore replied simply, "However the people needed a hero, even after I defeated… Grindelwald… and who was I to deny them?"

Ra'jirra looked levelly at the old man. It suddenly struck him that Dumbledore was a victim of his own success, and that he needed help to get out from under. Then something else struck him.

"Hang on, what do you mean _I_ have to attend some inquiry?"

"Here, page seven. '_Why are Colonial Wizards in Black Plateau?'_ That's going to have the Ministry and the Wizengamot screaming for answers."

Ra'jirra leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling for Divine guidance. "Well, hells," he said at last, absently washing one ear, "we'll just have to give 'em some, won't we?"

* * *

AN: You have no idea how many darlings I had to kill to get to a natural break point; how many scenes I had to throw away because of unneeded characters. I think one more Ra'jirra-centric chapter then we get back to Harry & Co. Ltd.


	33. Chapter 33

**For Those Who Came In Late:**

Real life has been brown and lumpy. Hence the long pause.

Thanks to an ill-advised interview with ace (ah, actually, replace that consonant with 'rs') reporter Rita Skeeter, both Ra'jirra and Dumbledore are under the gun. Fudge, it appears, wants an inquiry into what in Merlin's name is going on at Hogwarts…

**Friday morning, Senior Under-Secretary's Office:**

Delores Umbridge re-read her notes with increasing satisfaction. She didn't like that awful and undoubtedly Dark creature that claimed to be Potter's stepfather, and she _really_ didn't like Dumbledore. Candidly speaking, she wasn't all that thrilled with Cornelius either. The man had power, but simply didn't wield it properly, instead doing whatever the influential told him.

Ideally, Cornelius would take advice from just one trustworthy source, one with unquestionable judgement about what was right for wizardkind… even though it had taken him nearly ten years to stop calling her _Doris._

But in order for that to happen, something would have to be done about those who had far too much influence for a devoted and patriotic senior undersecretary to counter.

Fortunately, the events of Halloween, and the recent works of Rita Skeeter, had given her exactly what she needed. When this inquiry was concluded, not only would Dumbledore be put in his rightful place, not only would the Boy-Who-Lived be placed with a suitable family of proper blood and traditions, but Cornelius would _finally_ know who would give him the best advice.

For the greater good of British Wizardry, of course.

**Some distance off in the Ministry of Magic:**

Ra'jirra adjusted his blue Arch-Mage's robes with every evidence of discomfort. Enchanted fabrics were tricky and costly to let out, and even then the magic could make the cloth bend or fold uncomfortably. The fact he was wearing the godsdamned hood as well didn't help.

One good thing about the hood was that it helped block off the sight of Dumbledore's kit. The old man had chosen a startlingly green and purple outfit that looked like a circus tent on far too much psilocybin. His expression was a carefully composed benign calmness, as though nothing serious was amiss, and they weren't about to be grilled by a board of most likely Dark family heads.

"The important thing is that we keep Ministry inspectors out of the school," he said again for the nth time.

"Yeah yeah," Ra'jirra grunted, "last thing the cubs need is a pack of sticky-beaks getting in the way."

"But what about the Americans?"

"Passing bloody through, I told you. They're only here long enough to pop over to Tamriel and otherwise it's normal keyports –"

"Portkeys."

"– yeah, and that bloody Floo. Seriously, don't you have _any_ magical travel that doesn't feel like going over a waterfall in a barrel?"

"The Floo is a perfectly safe means of travel. It's all about keeping moving in one smooth motion so you don't fall over once you're out the other end."

Ra'jirra just rolled his eyes as they arrived at the designated chamber.

Inside, he noted the two basic wooden chairs in front of the ostentatiously elevated table, behind which he recognised the pink squatness of that bloody Umbridge; the unmistakable nasal hairs of Barringsley, fluffed with self-importance; and a man whose bearing immediately put Ra'jirra on edge. You could almost see the black hood.

Next to him, the tall Redguard-looking sort with the earring and the natty pillbox hat was far more reassuring – almost like Baurus. And finally another woman, a witch who was frowning at Ra'jirra intently from under her frowsy blonde curls while scribbling something on a parchment.

Without waiting to be asked, the old Khajiit plopped himself on one of the chairs, then allowed himself to slump with his legs extended. "Righto," he quipped, "before I start, any further questions?"

There was a brief, slightly taken aback pause.

"Hem-hem," good things couldn't last. "This inquiry is now in session." The doors were spelled shut with what was probably supposed to be an ominous boom. "On the board, for the record, Delores Umbridge, Senior Under-Secretary for the Minister of Magic, presiding; Lord Balthazar Barringsley, representing the Hogwarts Board of Governors; Elizabeth Ellesmere, for the Being Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures; Kingsley Shacklebolt, for the Auror Office; and Walden Macnair," here Delores paused for effect, "Executioner for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures."

Ra'jirra's eyes narrowed, and Macnair just smirked back. Dumbledore, reclining on his transfigured armchair, watched the two carefully. Macnair had been one of Tom's pet arse-lickers, and no doubt he was here to attempt to intimidate the Arch-Mage.

"Charmed," drawled Ra'jirra, "and on the other side of the table, Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and a few other titles, and Ra'jirra, Arch-Mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild, Knight of the White Stallion of Leyawiin, Senior Member of the Imperial Council of Tamriel, Slayer of the King of Worms, and probably a few others but I can't remember." He shrugged. "So, what's first?"

Silence fell, spraining its ankle.

"The matters under inquiry," Umbridge, the Khajiit noticed, was quick to recover, "are as follows. First, the inexplicable rampage of a Dark Creature inside Hogwarts, which took place on Halloween."

"That giant, you mean."

"That was a mountain troll," Dumbledore corrected him, eyes twinkling briefly.

"I know what a troll looks like, I've seen the little green bastards! It was a giant."

"I suppose the trolls of Tamriel, ah, might be –"

"Crossed with an ogre, if that were possible," Ra'jirra chuffed truculently.

"Pardon me," MacNair interrupted, "But out of curiosity, can you describe a troll?"

"Can do. They're covered in greenish fur, though some reckon there's moss in there as well, face a bit like a squashed-in goblin's, except there's this third eye right in the forehead. If you stretch 'em out, they measure about seven feet top to toe, but normally they wander around hunched over. Tough and fast buggers too. Set 'em on fire and they won't regenerate, preferably from a nice long way away."

MacNair hummed. "That doesn't sound like any troll species I've heard of, but I'll make a note in case one escapes to here."

"In a scamp's eye," Ra'jirra snorted, "Unless one of those idiots in Black Plateau starts messing with 'em."

MacNair just grunted, pondering whether _incendio_ would work on a Tamriel troll.

"Hem-_hem_," somehow Umbridge managed to get out through clenched teeth, "returning to the first item, this raises questions as to how a Class XXXX creature was able to enter Hogwarts; also, why the students were exposed to risk by being sent to their common rooms, especially those of Slytherin, since when the alarm was raised the troll was in the dungeons, where the Slytherin common rooms are."

She paused. Dumbledore's favouritism was not much of a secret, and she had her suspicions about his decision to _not_ keep everyone in the Great Hall.

"So: How is it," she asked, "that a Class XXXX creature, namely a mountain troll, was able to enter Hogwarts, despite the existence of wards to repel such dangerous if not Dark creatures?"

She was a little surprised to notice Ra'jirra frowning at Dumbledore. "Hold on," the cat-faced being asked, "there's wards that can repel some creatures and not others?"

"Well of course," Barringsley sniffed, causing his nose hair to flatten briefly, "I remember in my day they were taught as part of the Care of Magical Creatures curriculum. Same sort of thing as Muggle repelling wards."

Ra'jirra sighed; yet another thing these wizards took for granted and didn't see the need to explain. "Well, if that's the case, how could it get around them?"

"_That,_" Shacklebolt said calmly, "is what we wish to find out."

Albus rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to fend off an impending headache.

**In the Hogwarts library:**

Madame Pince was a witch who regarded (rightly, of course) the library as sacred to knowledge. And sacred places were meant to be respected as such. And if that bushy-haired muggleborn got any more excited – and thus noisy – she'd be expelled.

"I'm telling you, that Cerberus and the troll are connected in some way!" Hermione hissed, eyes flashing. Her study group-cum-hostages just sighed. Ever since the troll incident, the girl had been worrying at the issue like – well, a dog with a bone. A regular, non-magical dog. Extra heads weren't needed.

"Telling, Miss Granger?" Draco drawled sarcastically, "more like yelling. And when we should be researching our Transfiguration homework, no less," he added with just the right touch of asperity. Truth be told, the boys were becoming a _little_ tired of Hermione's obsession about the fact that she'd nearly encountered death by _two_ dangerous creatures already in her first year.

The girl blinked, her mind bouncing between topics, then shook her head. "But doesn't it make sense? The Cerberus was in a room off the third floor corridor. It's a menace to anyone who goes looking there. Why aren't the wards going off?" She frowned at the three-foot parchment that she had yet to start writing on.

"Maybe 'cos it's not a threat if you don't unlock the door," Ron shrugged. He just wanted this study session to be over so they could do something more fun, such as wizarding chess. He juggled his copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages, _currently hiding unsuccessfully inside Switch's _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration. _It said something about Hermione's state of mind that she hadn't noticed recently.

"And the troll wasn't really a threat until it… well…" Harry shrugged.

Hermione scrunched her eyes shut and clenched her fists with frustration. "That's not _helping,_ Harry," she grated, "creatures like that shouldn't even be allowed _in_ the castle!" Her lips thinned in a straight, angry line. "Something is going on here, and _I_ intend to find out what it is!"

"And then you can solve that Gringotts break-in while you're at it," Ron remarked off-handedly.

Draco and Neville coughed pointedly in stereo.

"Miss Granger," Ron recited obediently.

Neville and Draco shared faint smirks. As part of their campaign to educate Harry – pardon me, _Lord_ Potter – they took pains to ensure Harry spoke, and was spoken to, with the appropriate formality. While Hermione remembered most of the time, Ron didn't. Possibly this was because asking "Pass the potatoes please" would take long enough back home that you'd be offered an empty platter.

"You mean the one into that empty vault, the Friday night after you'd done your shopping, uh, Mister Weasley?" Harry caught himself in time.

"Yeh," Ron nodded, "My big brother Bill, he's a curse-breaker for Gringotts, he reckons if it wasn't for that vault being emptied earlier, there could've been another rebellion. The goblins were furious."

Both Draco and Neville nodded. "I'd have to agree about that," Neville said, "the Gringotts goblins take any break-in attempt as a mortal insult to their entire clan, let alone a declaration of war."

Hermione blinked. "Mr Weasley, ah," she took a breath, trying to keep calm, "What would that have to do with _two_ dangerous creatures here in Hogwarts?"

Ron shrugged. "Well… while we were waiting for a teller, I remember seeing Hagrid…"

"Groundskeeper…"

"Groundskeeper Hagrid," he shot a dirty look at Draco, "trying to whisper to the teller about, um, the 'you-know-what' in vault 'you-know-which'."

"I can imagine," Harry nodded sagely, "Hag… all right, _Groundskeeper _Hagrid's got a big voice."

Hermione said nothing. She'd stopped listening, thoughts turning towards the trapdoor she'd noticed.

Ron didn't elaborate. He was alternately thinking about Quidditch and who was likely to lose to him tonight. Yes, Ron liked his wizarding chess.

**Slightly after the inquiry:**

"That went well," Ra'jirra observed as he and Dumbledore made their way back to the lift, and by extension the Floo to Hogwarts.

"Did it?" Dumbledore wasn't so sanguine. "Madame Umbridge still wants to send a party of ward experts to inspect the school." Which was exactly the last thing he needed, with what was currently secured inside the castle, and how.

"Lean on her superiors," the Khajiit shrugged, "Make her wait until everything blows over."

"I'm not sure how long I can do that," the old man muttered, then changed the topic. "I fear she also wants custody of Harry swapped to one of the pureblood wizarding families."

Ra'jirra stopped and glared amber ire at the wizard. "Is _that_ why I had to give a little lecture about Conjuration, is it?"

Dumbledore just looked sadly at him, then muttered something as he moved on, forcing the old Khajiit to follow. "I'm afraid it is," he repeated to the now angry Ra'jirra, "since it _does_ resemble the Dark Arts. Also there are those who cannot accept that Harry is, at the moment, less a wizard of Britain and more one of Cyrodiil. Let alone…"

"I know," Ra'jirra's ears were as flat as his eyes. "Plenty of those weird red letters made it _quite_ clear what they thought of me as his Dad." His expression promised torment if he caught the writers.

"And, like I told you, necromancy and conjuration are two different things! Conjuration involves, as I said, instantiating an ideal from the Aurbis, which underpins everything. Necromancy involves capturing and binding the soul of a previously living mortal and shoving it back in its remaining original flesh."

Dumbledore said nothing. As far as he was concerned, it was a _nice_ distinction between capturing some poor wretch's soul, and that of an animal, or one of these "deedra" things. And he doubted that Umbridge and her associates would care either.

Ra'jirra continued to grumble sulphurously under his breath until and probably right through the Floo travel back to the Headmaster's office.

The presence of Dervas Oren, pacing worriedly in front of the desk, took them both aback.

"Dervas? What're you doing here?" was Ra'jirra's intelligent inquiry.

"Harnir's back at Black Plateau," the Dunmer explained, "That book... has been destroyed."

"Destroyed? And what's this about Harnir leaving Black Plateau?" the Arch-Mage demanded.

Dervas told them.


	34. Chapter 34

**For those who came in late:**

Umbridge has yet to make her move after a board of inquiry probed into the troll incident. However, it appears something happened in – or rather, beyond Black Plateau – and Dervas is about to explain all.

This was absolute hell to write, by the way. I'm seriously regretting ever publishing this damnable screed in the first place. Still, I know where it ends, and once it does...

**In the Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts:**

"It all came to a head about a fortnight ago," Dervas explained, "after you sent that book to the c– to Harnir. We didn't realise anything was wrong until…"

"Wait," Dumbledore rose to his feet, eyes twinkling brightly, and drawing his wand. "Rather than strain your voice…"

"The pensieve, of course!" Ra'jirra could have slapped himself for forgetting about that marvellous enchanted object.

"What's pensieve?" Dervas blinked in confusion at the stone basin being levitated onto the desk.

"That is," the Arch-Mage indicated the runed object unhelpfully, carefully hiding a grin.

"Now then," Dumbledore turned to the Dunmer with wand raised and a small vial in hand, "Please concentrate on what happened, as hard as you can."

Seeing your memory being literally pulled out of your head for the first time, without forewarning, is apparently slightly alarming.

**In the Headmaster's pensieve:**

Ra'jirra looked over the memory-Dervas' shoulder at a short figure and groaned before turning to the real Dervas. "He's writing in it."

Dervas didn't answer. He was watching himself in fascination as his memory-self discussed some trivia over lunch with a gaggle of fellow magi.

Harnir had several books of spellcraft open, but his eyes were fixed on a smaller volume. The three went over and looked down. Harnir would scribble something in the book, whereupon the ink would disappear, as though being sucked _into_ the page, before different words emerged. Ra'jirra glanced at the other books, noting with alarm that they were basic and intermediate texts on magickal theory.

All through this, Harnir muttered, alternating between a normal if strained Bosmer tone, and something higher and crueller.

"Oh hells, he was got at," Ra'jirra found his mouth suddenly dry as Elsweyr sands.

"Harnir?" A battlemage had approached, a bulky Orisimer eyeing the ex-necromancer suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

Harnir, if it _was_ still Harnir in that head, closed the small black book with a clap. "Research," he hissed in an irritated voice that made it quite clear he resented the disturbance.

"Research my arse," the Orisimer retorted, "What the hells are these _student textbooks_ going to teach you?"

Harnir went still, still not looking up. "What I need to know," and that rasp made the hairs on Ra'jirra's and Dumbledore's necks stand up.

"What in Malacath's lopsided stones are you talking about, corpse-humper?" Evidently the battlemage had twigged something was wrong as well.

"_Sectumsempra,_" and Harnir's hand flicked at the nuisance.

All three magicals in the pensieve were impressed by the display of wandless Earth-2 magic. It would have been even more impressive (and messier) if Lorgnum gro-Bol hadn't been wearing his uniform.

As it was, the cutting curse merely creased his cuirass, and well-honed reflexes sprang into action. Even as he shouted in alarm, his right hook sent Harnir flying, stunned.

"He's gone crazy!" Lorgnum bellowed over the bedlam of shock, surprise and questions, "Hit me with some spell! Get some bracelets!"

"_Fools! Beasts! You cannot resist me!_" Harnir's snarl actually stopped the babel dead. "_I am your master!_"

He was looking up now, and his eyes were an alarming, hateful red.

Then they cleared briefly.

"Help me," Harnir whimpered faintly, before the red swamped them again.

Then they crossed and rolled upwards when a thoroughly annoyed Orisimer clonked him on the temple for a second time.

**West of Skingrad, about a week ago:**

Dervas Oren saw the upraised stone arms through the trees first, and with a glance back at the Arch-Mage's decidedly addled pet corpse-humper, reined in the cart's horses before dismounting and approaching a shrine he had last visited about a year ago.

The Dunmer saw nothing wrong with his worship of the Lady Meridia of the Infinite Energies; yes, she was one of the Daedric Princes, but she _was_ one of the nicer ones. Despite breaking from deep worship of her, he had still kept pilgrimage every year to her shrine. The only exception had been during the Oblivion Crisis. Oren was _not_ a fan of braving the incursions of Mehrunes Dagon in the wilds outside Skingrad. Bears were bad enough.

Indeed, two years ago he had procured some tents and erected them for the use of the Lady's devout. Her priest, Basil Ernarde, had been most pleased, and to his last day Dervas would swear that the Lady had blessed him somehow.

Harnir wasn't aware of any of this. This was easily explained by the fact he was actually bound and gagged, mostly snarling in a most un-Bosmerish tone or occasionally whimpering in a more natural one. The two battlemagi who had been tapped for the ride kept a wary eye on their captive.

Not for the first time, Dervas wondered how in the world nobody had twigged just how dangerous that damned book _was_.

_Well,_ the Dunmer thought to himself, _it _is_ valuable – to its creator, damn them._ He looked again at the Bosmer ex-necromancer. That tree-hugger didn't notice. _Nines! I can't tell if he's done it to himself, or the prison did it, or that book itself... is he just crazy from something he read or...?_

"Ho, there!"

Dervas jerked out of his thoughts before he ended up walking straight into one of the tents. Two years of constant use had faded what little colour it once had; the Redguard who'd hailed him, one hand on his dagger, he finally recognised as Demetrius.

"Ho, Demetrius," he returned, "In Her colours, I greet you."

"Dervas?" the Redguard blinked. "I didn't recognise you at first." He frowned at the cart behind the Dunmer. "Who're they?"

"The reason I'm here," Dervas said grimly, "The prisoner's one of the Arch-Mage's pet projects."

Demetrius blinked in confusion, then he turned inquiring eyes to Dervas.

"He discovered something involving a book," Dervas explained, "something that... I don't know. It's like the world's turned into a drake dreadful."

"And now he seeks the aid of Meridia." Basil Ernarde had approached, and his tone spoke conclusion. "Well met, Dervas Oren. Ah..."

He paused, looking at the occupants of the cart.

"Whatever the book is, the Arch-Mage nearly fell to its compulsions," Dervas finally admitted. "Apparently there's some sort of dangerous necromantic enchantment –"

"How do you know it's necromancy?" Basil Ernarde's tone turned both hard and priestly.

"Because _he_ used to be one of the Putrid Hand," Dervas said shortly.

The eyes of Meridia's worshippers turned unfavourably on Harnir.

"Let's just say prison gave him plenty of reason to regret that," Dervas added.

Basil frowned, before approaching the cart. Carefully, and with some mistrust of the battlemagi flanking Harnir, the Breton reached a hand to the Bosmer's temples, before pulling it away.

"Lady's Light and Fire, I can feel it from here!" he cried, then immediately took charge. "My faithful! Stand aside! This is something that must be laid at our Lady Meridia's feet!"

As the somewhat befuddled Daedra worshippers moved out of the way, Dervas took it on himself to collect a small strongbox and instruct the guards to 'help' Harnir down. "Come on you," he muttered, "we're almost there. We'll see an end to this."

Harnir just snarled something uncomplimentary as he was shepherded to the base of the great statue.

To the unaware, it seemed merely an old, abandoned statue of a woman in flowing, diphanous robes, hands raised as if to cup something before her face. The cleverer might have assumed it was of Ayleid make. To those who knew, however, it was far more dangerous.

From the expression on Harnir's face, it was clear the Bosmer had no idea of that. The oddly reddened eyes swept contemptuously over everything and everyone, before glaring daggers into Dervas' back as he unlocked the strongbox, then fixed obsessively on the book that was withdrawn.

It was a disappointingly slender volume, in a cloth-wrapped cover that almost inevitably was black. Reverently, the Dunmer placed the book at Meridia's feet.

_"What's this?"_

The voice was one known to those who sought her favour. It was a voice which could sparkle like the Magnus on water, or blind and burn like a solar flare; a voice that wasn't just fit for radio, but _was_ radio. And intrigued microwave. Also surprised gamma ray.

_"The flesh, bone and essence of the unquiet dead... those I expect,"_ the voice went on in a musing tone. _"Tell me, mer of Morrowind, why do you offer this unto me?"_

Harnir responded instead. Screamed, really, in his own voice this time. Despite being muffled, you could hear the desperation and terror – and then he cut off, and his voice changed again, becoming cruel and arrogant.

_"I see, Dervas Oren, my faithful."_

Dervas froze.

_"Something is not right here."_

And the air began to glow.

Except for a line that seemed to join the book to Harnir's head.

Around the Bosmer's body, the air also failed to glow, and actually managed to resemble rancid grease. Harnir himself looked around wildly, then squinted at the statue again as if trying to figure out what enchantment this was.

_"So."_

Meridia's voice was clinical, as the book began to rise into the space between her statue's outstretched hands. The line – not so much a darkness as an absence – held firm.

Between her hands, the air brightened more. The book opened, blank pages turning in a psychedelic treacle of light.

_"There is something here."_ Meridia's tone was clinical. _"It is not of this mortal plane. Where did you find it?"_

Dervas' tongue seemed frozen in his mouth, and he spoke with an effort. "The – the Arch-Mage sent it from Earth-2, m-my Lady," he finally got out, "He did – ah, write warnings on the wrappings…"

_"My favoured did well to do so," _Meridia sounded thoughtful and angry. _"This is a trap for the weak-willed and foolish. There is something within…"_

(At this point we must observe that Dervas' telling caused a minor sensation with the Arch-Mage. It's bad enough being some Daedric Prince's champion; in some ways, being favoured by one is worse.)

The book finally burst into flame; Meridia's regard can be stressful like that. As it burned to ash, two things happened.

The first was that Harnir began to scream, eyes rolling back in his head. Dervas had been rather grimly expecting that.

He wasn't expecting the second – oily darkness started pouring out of the hapless Bosmer's eyes, ears, nose, and even seeped past his gag, rising to where the books burned abnormally slowly between Meridia's hands.

The book finally reduced to ash, leaving something behind.

It was vaguely humanoid, black, greasy, tattered, and sporting two angry red eyes. _"What is happening?" _it screeched in a voice that could have caused spontaneous miscarriage, _"This cannot be! I cannot be stopped! I am immortal! I am powerful! I am Lord Voldemort!"_

(It is at this point that Dumbledore had a fit of the vapours, with his worst fear realised.)

_"You,"_ and now Meridia's voice was a lash of freshly ejected solar plasma, _"are an abomination beyond the imagining even of Vaermina!"_ Around the statue, the ground began to crack as it dried out; the grass and moss were smoking in the heat of Meridia's wrath.

Which was nothing compared to what was happening to the black thing that had been haunting the book. _"I will break free!"_ it howled, and wielded what magic it had. However, the singularly powerful and unpleasant magics weren't any help against an immortal being who, by now, was definitely slewing towards fury.

At this point, we must make two notes about Meridia's fury. The first note is that, under no circumstances, should you incur it. The second note is that in the event you experience it, assuming you are _not_ the target, you should flee for the nearest cover, or a five mile minimum safe distance, whichever comes first.

That the shade of Voldemort had incurred it goes without saying.

If Dervas, Basil and everyone else hadn't been engrossed in getting away, they would have seen Meridia wielding energies unknown to all but a few nuclear physicists, as she methodically (and, let us admit, more than a little vindictively) butchered the abomination.

They _did_ hear the slaughter though, and even Vaermina would later wonder what had got into her fellow Daedric Prince at the time.

Dervas and the battlemagi were more concerned with the profusely bleeding Harnir. This was partly because explaining to the Arch-Mage why his pet corpse-humper was dead would be a career limiting move. Also, they wanted to know what had happened from _his_ point of view without needing an ouija board.

By the time the ghastly screaming ended and the temperature began falling back to Nirn normal instead of Mercury normal, all that was left was a black crystalline mass, which slowly floated down to the cracked, roasted earth about the statue.

"_This was but one atrocity that being committed,_" Meridia declared, "_You, mortal, Dervas Oren of the Mage's Guild, take this gem unto your Arch-Mage, my favoured one, and tell him this: Capture the others!_"

And with that, her presence simply left, an absence that felt like a cool gust of air. Nobody spoke. Harnir moaned softly in pain. In the distance, a sparrow chirped uncertainly.

**Back in the present moment and a bit:**

"Possession," Ra'jirra said at last from the bottom of a glass of firewhiskey.

Dervas just concentrated on his own glass, eyes looking anywhere except the Arch-Mage and that… that terrible _thing_ with a chunk of his _mind_ in there. He much preferred to think about his drink. He'd had flin once, cost him a pretty drake and two ugly ones as well; but given his national tipple and this stuff he'd plump for the firewhiskey every time, he decided slightly hysterically.

"He made a horcrux," Dumbledore said very quietly. The two Tamrielic magi blinked at the old wizard, who appeared to have aged another twenty years while he and Ra'jirra had delved into Dervas' memory.

"What?" was the inevitable intelligent response.

"I do not understand what this… Meridia… did, but from what we saw, I believe that what… she… destroyed was not the Dark Lord's soul." He took a draggling breath.

"It was just _part _of it." He braced himself. "A _horcrux,_" he spat with resigned anger.

"Horcrux," Ra'jirra repeated. The word was ugly, all awkward corners. "Hells, it _sounds_ evil. So, what's one when it's at home?"

Dumbledore looked at the Khajiit, who just looked back stoically. "The result of one of the foulest Dark magics," he explained at last, "A ritual that requires the murder of an innocent. No wizard can otherwise cut off a piece of their soul, and place it in a chosen vessel."

Nobody spoke.

Then Dervas began to giggle.

Dumbledore and Ra'jirra looked at the Dunmer in confusion as he continued to giggle hysterically. "Necromancy," he finally managed to get out. "The stupid little corpse-humper was offed by _necromancy!_"

Dumbledore was the first to react to Dervas' hysteria with an almost casual sleeping charm, which chained into a cushioning charm on the floor. Thoughtfully, he scooped the memory out of the pensieve, before carefully reinserting it into the Dunmer's head.

"Perhaps I should have warned him first," Ra'jirra murmured, "But… hells! If this gets out that I'm favoured by a Daedric Prince…" he muttered to himself inaudibly.

"Maybe your previous sojourn against the… King of Worms, wasn't it? That might have pleased her," Dumbledore surmised with a faint smile.

The old Khajiit's eyes and ears went thoughtful, then wild, then unhappy. "Doesn't matter," he sighed at last, "Ever since Mankar the Wanker let Mehrunes Dagon run riot, anyone who openly worships any of the Princes, naughty or nice, well, it goes hard for them. In my position…"

_There's plenty of bastards who'd use that against me,_ went unsaid.

"Anyway," Dumbledore turned serious again, "A horcrux means that the creator cannot die, as his or her soul is still tied to the living realm. And remember what that… Princess Meridia? Prince? Said. _Capture the others._"

Silence fell again. "Plural," Ra'jirra said at last, "the mad cunt made at least one more."

Dumbledore didn't respond at first, busying himself with returning the pensieve to its usual spot. "We'd best get your fellow back to his own bed," he finally declared, looking fixedly at the unconscious mer and avoiding Ra'jirra's eyes.

In truth, Ra'jirra was a little distracted by walking through the castle under a Notice-Me-Not charm, with a senseless mage floating along behind them – or in crowded situations, directly above them – to comprehend the situation.

They eventually reached the ex-Shrieking Shack, and it wasn't until after the insensate Dervas Oren was installed in the healer's chamber, and Ra'jirra was able to enter his office, that it all came crashing down on him.

Harnir was out of the race – from what he saw there was probably severe injury to the brain. The little corpse-humper most likely wouldn't wake up, but first off, he'd have to send to Skingrad Chapel and find out.

But what really took his attention currently rested on his desk. It was the shape of a quartz crystal, except for being two feet longm eight inches wide, and jet black, save for a single, malevolent point of mauve light endlessly orbiting within.

"Nine help me," he whispered to himself, "now how in hells do we find these damned _others?_"


End file.
